Ferals
by Nancy Brown
Summary: Ianto and Steven have returned home, but as Ianto tries to solve an alien's murder, he learns home isn't ready to take them back.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Ferals (1/6)  
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Steven, Alice, Gwen, Martha, Mickey, OCs  
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Martha/Mickey, past Jack/others, past Ianto/OMC  
Rating: for adults only  
Warnings: suicide, character death including child death, gore and violence  
Spoilers: plot spoilers through CoE, (very) brief mention of characters and events from MD, some parts based on early spoilers from the current season of DW, but finished before the season premiere aired  
Beta: Eldabe and Fide Et Spe both kicked this into shape, and have my deepest thanks.  
Summary: Ianto and Steven have returned home, but as Ianto tries to solve an alien's murder, he learns home isn't ready to take them back.  
A/N: Sequel to Strays and Rescues. Eldabe did a lot of heavy lifting in breaking this fic, and without her, it would not exist. If you like it, tell her thank you.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

The most amazing thing about sex with Jack Harkness is that, despite his breadth of experience, he has a gift for making his current partner the star of his attention and the centre of his private universe. At this moment his lips and teeth are engaged in seeking out the sensitive place under Ianto's jaw that curves down his neck. Jack makes a delighted sound deep in his own throat, drawing wet images with his tongue, savouring the taste of skin and the skitter of his fingers on Ianto's shoulders as much as he has ever enjoyed anything.

It's heady, almost frightening, to be here with him under the focus of his perfect attention. Ianto can't completely let go of the thought of fresh-faced bartenders or worlds-weary space sailors, but Jack has, does, here in the dark. There's no-one else on his mind, no other ghosts in the bed.

Ianto tries to capture the same easy grace, dragging Jack back to meet his mouth by an oh so careful tug to Jack's hair. Counting the months or years between them isn't possible: Jack has skipped time, Ianto has spent part of the interim dead. But Jack's mouth never changes, full of bright smiles around each kiss, ragged breaths punctuated by nonsense words between each swipe of tongue and nibble of perfect teeth. It'd be predictable if it wasn't so damn wonderful.

These sheets are new, a little scratchy, and Ianto squirms, not coincidentally rubbing himself against Jack's body, groaning at the smooth friction of Jack's erection hot and plump against his.

His mobile chirps.

Jack keeps kissing him, not hearing it or not caring, but Ianto pauses the kisses to hear the second chirp.

He's out of breath as he throws off enough covers to reach the mobile phone. Jack has already looked at the caller ID as Ianto answers. It's got Alice's name.

"Hello."

"Hi."

Part of him expected the voice to be Alice's, but only a small part. "Are you all right?" Ianto swings his legs over the edge of the bed, uncomfortably aware that he is turning away from Jack as he does so. But he has to give his own complete attention elsewhere now.

"I'm okay," Steven says. He's got that breathless hitch. Ianto's not fooled.

"How bad was the nightmare?" he asks in a low voice. He can feel Jack watching him. He can sense Jack wanting to take the phone.

"Are you busy?"

"No. We can talk." He straightens his back, cracking it, then grabs his dressing gown as he walks to the lounge, leaving Jack in the bed.

On the other end, he can hear Alice say something but he can't make out the words. "Mum says I should go because I'm bothering you."

"Tell her you're not bothering me. It's fine. I gave you my number so you could call any time," he says in the cheeriest tone he can manage.

There's a long pause, and he can't tell if Steven has covered the speaker with his hand. Behind him, Jack has come to the door and is still watching. He's certain Alice is doing the same from Steven's end of the conversation.

"Can you come over tomorrow?"

"Of course." A second later he says, "Make sure it's all right with your mother." Sometimes he forgets. Ianto spent months pretending to be Steven's father. Now Alice is the one who decides what her child does. Ianto is a well-meaning friend of the family, and nothing more.

He listens to Steven ask, and hears the hesitancy in Alice's reply.

"She says it's fine."

"All right. I'll come over tomorrow. Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"Okay. Good night."

The line clicks, and Ianto closes his phone. Jack hasn't moved. "Just a nightmare," Ianto says lightly, walking past him to set the mobile back in its place close to the bed. "He'll be fine."

"That's every night this week."

And nearly every night since he's been home. Ianto got the first calls before he was discharged from hospital. Steven insisted on staying with him for three nights, curled up on a blanket in the hospital room. The Doctor came, as he came to help all those affected by the TARDIS explosion, and then Alice insisted Steven go home.

He phoned the very first night. Steven falls asleep and is beset with terrors, and he calls Ianto.

Problem sorted for the moment, they fall back into bed, and it's not long until Jack is distracted with Ianto's mouth. Ianto himself keeps half an ear open for another ring.

* * *

Mornings begin more or less the same way every day: love, gentle to start and more energetic as both wake, hands and mouths engaged until toes curl in perfection. Then a shower, shared so Jack can help him scrub around his injury. If work doesn't beckon, Jack cooks breakfast and if Torchwood does call, he steals a fast kiss before dashing out the door.

The argument is also the same every morning. "I could go with you."

"No. You're not recovered."

That sufficed him the first weeks home, but Ianto has been benefiting from extra(terrestrial) healthcare, thanks to the new medic Jack hired when Ianto was … away. "Away" is the word they use, Jack and Gwen. Ianto goes along with the pretence, because "when you were dead" isn't something any of them want to acknowledge. "Away" sounds like Ianto took leave, finding himself whilst Jack and Gwen did whatever they did in America.

Several changes were made during the period Ianto was away. Jack and Gwen put together a new team here, and they have contacts overseas. A new woman, someone Ianto has only seen previously in a mirror using the special contact lenses, does his old tasks. A new man, with a sharp face and a Liverpool accent, carries a gun and hacks into computers, inadequately filling Tosh's empty shoes. An alien who passes for human and who can sense disease and injury by touch occupies the autopsy bay now, and she has been visiting Ianto since he was discharged, bringing her special touch and chiding care. And Jack and Gwen, of course.

It's a new team of five, replacing the old team of five. Ianto can count, and when Jack still tells him no after he feels fine, he knows Jack can count, as well.

"I need to go in to work," Ianto says, not backing down. He doesn't say, "You need me," because they have seen that's not true.

"Stay in. Relax. Besides," Jack says, eyes shadowed, "you promised to go visit today."

"Tomorrow. I'm going to work tomorrow."

"You don't need to. We've got things covered."

The argument always ends this way, with Jack walking out the door, off to the Hub, off to do what Ianto should be doing. And Ianto stays here.

He's getting used to this soulless flat, incongruously sleek and modern with chrome and black tile. Jack picked it months ago when he came back to Cardiff, but no room could feel less like Jack: neither drenched in 1940s nostalgia nor futuristic and pining for a time yet to be. Few of Ianto's former possessions are here, just a creased and ruined blue tie Jack had kept during his travels and the random ends Rhi hadn't donated. He has some photographs and the books she'd neglected to give to the jumble sale at the church, and nothing more. Jack has very few of his old things here, given that most of what he'd owned was destroyed with the first Hub. They are beginning this new life together, except that Jack has a life, and Ianto is staying home, is taken care of, is slowly going out of his mind because his boyfriend is under no circumstances letting him go back to work at their insanely dangerous job.

He washes up the breakfast dishes and checks the train schedule. He can be at Steven's door by eleven if he hurries.

He calls Alice. "I'll be on the train arriving at ten forty-five."

She pauses. "Have you left?"

"Not yet."

"Don't. He's better this morning. I'm sending him to school. You can come Saturday."

She doesn't put Steven on to talk. "Sounds good," Ianto says, and closes his phone with a quick good-bye.

Then he looks around the flat that isn't exactly his, and he wonders if he should clean it again to pass the time.

* * *

_Lost? Feeling alone in your new life? Call Amy's Friends_

[number redacted, poster is old and fraying in the weather]

* * *

A few of the flowers from his hospital stay are pot plants Ianto hasn't killed yet. They brighten the room. He's written 'thank you' letters to everyone who sent something, less out of obligation and more out of boredom. It also means he has contact information, and during the long day, he calls Anne.

"Sally," she reminds him, because they have all returned to their homes and their names and their lives.

Her daughters have grown, she tells him, proud and sad at once. Things changed when she was away and she's still adjusting.

"They're forgetting. That man, that doctor, he fixed me. Made them see me. And now they're forgetting I was gone. They're even forgetting about what happened when I was gone, the camps and everything. But I remember dying, Lloyd. I remember they didn't know me."

Ianto doesn't correct her on his name. She has died and lived through something remarkable. In the old days, he would have encouraged her to forget. Now he thinks she deserves the truth. "Humans can't deal with everything that happens. Our brains don't process it, so we make up reasons why we couldn't have seen mannequins come to life, or Daleks or planets in the sky."

"But it's all real. I know it's real. We all died."

"And time fractured." Ianto barely understands. He won't be able to explain it properly. "People forget because it's easier than learning nth dimensional physics."

"How's your little boy?" she asks abruptly.

"He's back home with his mother. I was only taking care of him." It's a strange sort of lie to tell her, made up almost perfectly of things that are true.

"I'm setting up a get-together with some of the old faces. The two of you ought to come. I mean, you're the reason we all could go home."

Amy Pond, the arbiter of their return, won't be there. Amy has left the planet. He felt her go, long before the curious message came from the Doctor: Amy is with the angels, and her daughter has gone to the Library.

He starts to beg off. It will be in London, he has things to do here. But he doesn't, not really. Jack might be reluctant to have him gone for a few nights but really, he's gone all day anyway, and Ianto doesn't have much to do with his time. Alice might allow Steven to go, and she might not. "Let me know. I'll try to be there."

* * *

Sally calls back that afternoon, and amid the completely spotless flat, he's absurdly grateful for the call, until she says, "Keith killed himself two days ago."

Ianto doesn't remember Keith at all. He doesn't remember most of the faces from Amy's Friends, but Sally is distraught. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why would he do that? He finally went home." She's angry, and she's terrified, too.

Perhaps there wasn't room at home for him any more. Perhaps he discovered there were worse things than being away. Perhaps as vital he might have thought he was, everyone he loved had moved on without him.

"I don't know."

* * *

Jack's home early. "Quiet day," he says with a kiss. "Let's go somewhere tonight. There's this new place along the quay you'll love."

"Sure. How is everyone?"

"Good. Gwen says hello and wants to have us over for dinner on Saturday."

"Saturday's bad. I've got plans."

Jack's eyebrows reach his hairline. He calms his expression instantly but Ianto has already seen and noted. Jack's no fool, taking a quick glance at the time and coming to a conclusion. "You didn't go visit today."

"Alice said to wait." Alice, he thinks, would prefer he not visit at all. Ianto is a reminder of bad times she is desperate to put behind her, and Jack's face is no better for her to see. "So, we can go on Saturday, or I'll go and you can have dinner with Gwen and Rhys."

"No, I'll tell Gwen we'll take a raincheck. It's fine. Are you ready to go?"

The new bistro on the quay is pleasant but not remarkable. Jack's a bit too much himself, cheery and romantic and overzealous to turn this into a date, to catch up for years of no dates and bad memories. Ianto enjoys the hand stroking his wrist and their ankles nudged together under the table, and he'd be lying if he claimed not to like the attention, but he's also annoyed. This is a holding pattern, when they ought to be worked to the bone, taking minutes off with each other as rare gifts. He shouldn't be sitting home alone all day. Life was supposed to revert to normal with his return to Cardiff, with breaking the perception filter hiding him from everyone who knew him.

"Dessert?" Jack is already poring over the separate _Sweets and Treats_ menu. He's lost weight in the intervening years, leaner in his body and older in his face, but Jack's tastes haven't changed.

"None for me." Instead he has an extra glass of wine he doesn't need.

They take a walk after, though Jack steers him clear of the Hub's entrances, new and old. Ianto recognises faces and shops, others are frighteningly new. He remembers this sensation from his last homecoming, dragging along these same streets like a stranger after the horrors of Canary Wharf.

After twenty minutes, Ianto feigns fatigue. Back at the flat, he pounces on Jack with more fervour than he feels, and Jack responds happily. They fuck on the stiff, new carpet, Ianto thinking less about the man in his arms and more about shop fronts he doesn't know and someone named Keith he doesn't remember.

Later, after some telly and not much conversation, they go to bed. Around midnight, Ianto's phone rings. Another nightmare.

* * *

On Saturday, Alice phones early to say, in spite of the panicked call Ianto took late last night, that everything is fine and they've made other plans. These plans are iron-clad: Steven is going to spend the weekend with his father and stepmother.

"Let me wish him a good trip?"

He senses her reluctance over the line, but Steven picks up the other end. "Hi."

He has to speak carefully. "Are you looking forward to spending the weekend with your dad?"

Steven's voice gets quiet. "Not really." When they were away, he met someone who might have been his dad but who didn't recognise Steven at all. Although everyone else they knew reacted the same way, Steven shut down after that encounter, burrowing into his own sad head.

"Did I ever tell you about my father?"

"Nope."

"We didn't always get on. He wanted me to be someone I wasn't. I think I wanted the same thing from him. But I loved him, and even if he didn't show it, I know he loved me. Dads are kind of terrible sometimes at showing what they feel." He doesn't tell Steven to ask his mother about that. No use making things worse. "Your dad is going to be very happy to see you, even if he doesn't show it the way you want."

"Okay." Steven doesn't sound convinced. "When are you coming to visit?"

When your mother lets me. "Soon."

They say their goodbyes and ring off. Jack sometimes pretends not to listen when Steven's on the phone, but he may as well admit to eavesdropping. He's in his own bad place with Alice: responsible for Steven's death, indirectly responsible for bringing him back. He doesn't dare get in the middle now.

Ianto says, "Do you think we could still go to Gwen's tonight?"

"I think she'd like that."

* * *

Gwen is a hugger and an enabler of hugs in others. She greets them at the door with a big smile, dimmed only when Anwen howls in the background. The toddler's at the age when she doesn't want her mam out of sight for even a minute, which Rhys says is making the days Gwen's at work a pain.

"No daycare at the Hub," Jack says, and Ianto can tell this is a discussion he's coming into late. He's not surprised. He _is_ surprised when the doorbell rings again, with Albert on the step with a bottle of wine, and it's not long before Lois arrives, flustered and late from a last-minute phone call with her boyfriend. Dr. Pol can't join them but sends her regrets.

Gwen invited the team, the new team. Ianto has met them, but he doesn't really know either of them. As dinner winds along, talk turns to recent cases and goings-on. Jack doesn't talk about work with him, so the Jeral incursion is news even though it apparently happened last week.

Albert laughs. "I can't believe you did that to its dorsal fin." He flops his hand over, which sends Lois, Gwen, and Jack into fits of laughter with him. Rhys at least looks as lost as Ianto feels, another Torchwood widow. Just the thought makes Ianto reach for his glass again, and he hides behind it when Lois chats with Rhys about a case he helped them with a month ago.

The only person he isn't insanely jealous of is the toddler. After dinner and before dessert, Ianto sits on the rug with her, catching her attention with a big red ball rolled between them. "Ba!" she says every time she pushes the ball with chubby arms.

"Red ball." He rolls it back.

"Red ba!" This is probably the best game ever invented. "Row red ba!"

He feels Jack sit down behind him, rubbing his shoulders playfully until Ianto shrugs him off. "Excuse me. This young lady and I are having a game."

Anwen looks exactly like Rhys. Ianto feels unearned relief watching her face scrunch up like her dad's, but he'll never admit it. She's the brightest spot in a long, uncomfortable evening. Anwen doesn't talk about new species of aliens spotted in the city centre. She doesn't suggest phoning Rex to consult on a case about aliens turning up dead under mysterious circumstances. She likes her red ball. It's a good red ball.

Sadly, she goes down to sleep at nine, leaving him with a room full of people he doesn't know, or doesn't know any more. He sits quietly, listening to them talk, gradually becoming aware of how little anyone there notices his presence, a spectre on the sidelines.

At nine-thirty, his mobile rings. "I'll take this outside," he says to no-one.

It's Sally. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No. How are you?"

"Fine, fine." They chat a little before she tells him she's arranged the get-together for Tuesday evening, and can he make it?

He doesn't have to glance inside. "I'm free. I'd love to come."

"Can you bring Steven?"

"I don't think I can but I'll ask his mum." Who will say no. "What time?"

Ianto lingers on the line longer than he needs to, not wanting to return to the conversation inside. Sally takes the chance to vent. Her husband has stopped remembering that she was away, but his new girlfriend hasn't. Not all the pieces fit when pushed back together.

"Oh, and I'm glad I called around. Laura, do you remember Laura?"

He recalls a vague image: a middle-aged woman, too-red hair. "Yes."

"I had to talk her down from a ledge."

He grips the phone. "Literally?"

"Half. She had her medicine cabinet open and was digging when I called. She's better now, I think, but I'm calling again tomorrow."

"Good idea." He's uncomfortably reminded of the days after the fall of Torchwood London. The survivors spoke too little, and their numbers dwindled as the bad memories claimed more victims. "Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"You've done plenty, but I will. I mean, you helped get us home. It's simply … "

"Home wasn't waiting for us."

"No." She's sad. They all went through rejections when they first returned to life. Parents, siblings, lovers, no-one knew them. But now they know, and many of those doors are still closed.

"I'll see you Tuesday," she says at last.

"I'll see you then."

He thinks about staying out here. He thinks about walking down to the shop they passed two streets over and buying a pack of cigarettes, even though he quit years ago. Before he decides, his mobile rings again. He doesn't know the number.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?"

Ianto blinks. He doesn't know the voice. "You phoned me."

"My son asked me to dial the number."

Ianto thinks fast. "Is this Joe? Joe Carter?"

"You're that man." There's confusion, grudging gratitude, and also suspicion as he says, "Alice told me about you."

"Ianto Jones. Is Steven all right?"

"He wanted to talk to you."

A moment passes, and then Steven says, "Hi."

"It's early. Did you have another nightmare?"

"No, I just wanted to say hi."

Ianto smiles. "Hi. Are you having a good visit?"

"It's okay. Dad and Petra took me to the museum and out for ice cream."

"That's good. What did you see?"

Steven launches into descriptions of dinosaur bones and recreations of fierce prehistoric creatures. He's babbling a little, but he's always like that after a large bowl of ice cream.

It occurs to Ianto that this is the longest chat they've had in a week. It also occurs to him that not all of Steven's nightmares have been actual nightmares. He's been looking for reasons to call, and his father isn't yet at the point of forbidding contact, as Alice seems to be nearing.

When Ianto finally says goodbye and goes back into Gwen and Rhys's home, an hour has passed. The others are still talking, but Jack takes a quick look at him, and says he's turning in.

"Are you all right?" he asks as soon as they're in the car and alone.

"Fine. Steven phoned. He's having a good visit. They saw dinosaur skeletons." He taps on the window. "I forgot to ask, did you ever locate Myfanwy?"

"Her tracking device shorted out a month after she vanished. The last location we have on her, she was headed north."

"I could do a search for her. Sheep disappearances, that sort of thing." He doesn't have much hope. The first winter would have killed her.

"Don't. She's not a danger to humans. Didn't we always say she'd come home when she was hungry?"

It's been years. She's hungry. Ianto doesn't mention her again. "I'm going to London Tuesday. I'll probably spend the night."

"Why?"

"Meeting up with some friends."

"Okay." The unsettled 'You have friends?' hangs in the air.

"Amy's Friends. Everyone is getting together to catch up." Not that he was necessarily friends with any of them, or even knew who they were when they were in the meetings. They understand, though. That makes them like family.

His own family is more difficult. Rhiannon came to visit while he was in hospital, and she's been over to the flat once. But she stares at him as though through a screen, not sure of what she sees, and the children act like he never left. Their memories are stitching themselves into something they can understand. In another year, the return of a thousand people to life will be forgotten by everyone but them (and Jack, and perhaps Gwen and Rhys, but Jack says that's a function of being exposed to too much weirdness).

Back at the flat, they settle in, and Steven doesn't call.

* * *

Ianto is a ball of nerves by Tuesday. Three times he opens his phone to call Sally and cancel, and three times he stops himself. Jack lingers over their goodbye kiss in the morning and offers him a lift to the train station, but Ianto would rather take the bus.

"Okay. Call me when you get there. Maybe we can have fun over the phone tonight?" It's simple and playful, only a touch strained. Jack hasn't asked what's wrong, because Jack doesn't do that. But he worries.

"I will. I'll see you tomorrow."

Part of him wants to break away right now, pack a real suitcase instead of this small bag, let the wind take him anywhere but this small, sleek, empty room. In deference to this urge, he buys a one-way ticket. He doesn't disembark at the Bristol station to change trains to head towards Steven's house, but he watches the rooftops until they are well out of sight.

London is just as huge and impenetrable as when he lived there: too big, too loud, and uninterested in the details of Ianto's mixed-up life story. The city had been a perfect place to bury himself every other time. Now he feels an unwelcoming presence around him, although an impersonal one. He doesn't belong here any more than he belongs home in Cardiff, but London doesn't give a damn why.

Amy's Friends used to meet in a church basement with stale biscuits and weak tea. Tonight they are collecting in a pub with fried heart attacks in a basket and strong beer. Sally greets each of them with a hug. Ianto doesn't recognise anyone as he's on the receiving end of handshakes and muttered thanks. It's not as effusive as it could be, but Ianto isn't excited either. Laura's in hospital for observation. Keith is dead. Others have vanished as neatly as they did when they were away.

There are glad tidings amidst the rest. Georgia went back to her fiancé, and they are getting married next month. Nareen is expecting a baby. Hal and Karl met through Amy's Friends, and although they've been welcomed back into their old lives, they're building a new one together.

The evening is interrupted unexpectedly by a commotion outside, and even beer-dulled instinct is instinct. Ianto is the first to the door, and of course it's a Parmerian, third eye dilated with whatever drug it shoved into its nose. It's shouting at hallucinations and wrecking everything in its path.

Ianto holds up his arms placatingly, hoping that's the right motion with this species. Insulting the alien's parentage never works out well.

Torchwood London would already have this situation contained. He can hardly let the side down now. "Hello," he says in the patois of the loose alliance the local alien population shares. "Stand down."

Ianto takes a step forward. The Parmerian watches him with interest, though he's seen the same expression on a dozen Weevil faces as they sized him up moments before attacking. But if he has its attention, it isn't as likely to attack any civilians.

It does not occur to him to think of himself as a civilian.

Behind him, the other patrons of the pub spill into the street, including Amy's Friends. "That's an alien, that is," says Nareen.

"Can't be," says someone else, someone who hasn't been dead and brought back in a pretty girl's dream. "Just some kids in fancy dress. Or those gang bangers on PCP."

Ianto catches the matching expressions of disgust on Hal's and Karl's faces out of the corner of his eye. "Kids," Karl says, and Ianto remembers those days, when he first realised how little the world is inside some people's heads.

He shuffles forward again, keeping the alien's focus. He's not sure what he'll do when he gets to the creature but he knows if he doesn't, someone else will end up hurt or killed.

The Parmerian explodes wetly, sending bloody chunks over the pavement. Ianto ducks, instinct again, but there isn't a second blast. He can just see the form in the alley lower the weapon in its arms before it vanishes. He shoots a glance to Sally. "Stay here. Make sure they stay here."

His mobile is in his hand as he runs after the thing that killed the Parmerian. Jack picks up after the first ring. "Hey ... "

Ianto cuts off potential phone sex with, "I'm in pursuit of an unknown. It just shot a Parmerian in front of me."

"Wait, what?"

Ianto turns the corner. Whatever this is, it's far ahead of him. He's out of shape. "A Parmerian, high on something, was outside the pub. When I was trying to talk it down, something shot it. I'm in pursuit."

Jack's voice is steady. "Ianto, stop. Right now."

Confused, for a moment he does. But it's getting away, and he dashes off again. "I'll lose it."

"Stand down!" The shout hurts his ear, even through the speaker. Forget instinct, Ianto's body follows orders faster than his head, and he stumbles to a stop.

Jack says, "You have no weapons, no backup, you don't know what you're chasing, and you've been drinking."

"I could have caught it," he says, out of breath, and angry at Jack for pointing out things he ought to have known himself.

"And then what? Been blown up?" There's a little teasing and a lot of worry. "Get back to the body. Contain the scene. Don't touch anything, don't let anybody else touch anything. I'll be there in a few hours."

"I know how to handle a scene."

Jack's voice turned tender. "I know you do. Give me the address."

The assailant is long gone. Ianto trudges back to the pub, and the growing crowd around the exploded Parmerian. It's a mess. This whole evening is a mess. He doesn't really know the people he's with, but there's no-one else to ask, so he has Hal and Karl move the crowd away, telling them the police have been called. Sally borrows a tablecloth from the restaurant next door and helps Ianto cover the parts of the body they can find.

He takes note of everything for later. The creature did explode, bursting from inside. Parts of its guts are charred as if from a superhot temperature, and he can't help but flash briefly to the horror of the moment they saw a bomb in Jack's belly, the dark twin to the embryo that Gwen had just discovered inside herself. Did this alien have a bomb inside that was activated by being shot? No inorganic bits, so unlikely. He files the notion away.

Sally looks sick under the sodium glare of the streetlamp.

"How much do we not notice?"

He shrugs, tucking a mutilated arm under the shroud. "If people noticed everything that happened with aliens and whatnot, they'd go mad. It's terrifying to realise how close Earth comes to annihilation all the time."

She stares at the blood on the pavement. "Like what happened to us, that sort of thing is always happening."

He nods. "But Earth has its protectors. That was the job of the group I used to work for."

"Used to?"

"Before."

It's her turn to nod. Everyone's life was different before.

Nareen and the rest go back into the pub. Everyone needs another drink after the excitement. Sally stays outside with Ianto as the night gets colder, making up excuses for the passers-by and waiting for Jack. They don't talk much. Her children are getting used to having her home again. Ianto is getting used to not having a child around. She wants to know more about aliens. He doesn't want her memories wiped.

Jack arrives significantly faster than the speeding laws ought to allow. Ianto's joy at seeing him (and it _is_ joy, fluttering into his heart) sputters and dies when Albert gets out of the car with him. He doesn't thaw with the kiss Jack plants on his lips.

"Is everything contained?"

Ianto gestures at the covered body. Albert is already unloading their body bag from the car. Ianto goes to help, but Jack's hand is on his chest, pushing him back.

"Tell me what you saw."

He reels off every detail he can recall, including his aborted chase of the killer. Jack listens intently. Just as in bed, no-one can do 'you have my full attention' like Jack Harkness interrogating a witness. Sally's waiting, and Ianto sees Jack's hand go to the deep pocket of his coat to find her a pill.

"Don't. She already knows everything. She's like me." He waves her over. "Sally, this is Jack."

Her face splits into a genuine smile as she extends her hand. "Ianto's told me so much about you."

"Likewise," Jack replies, although he hasn't, not much. That doesn't stop Jack from kissing her hand, or from flirting sweetly even as his own hand snakes around Ianto's waist in a proprietary fashion. He leaves the hand there as Sally and Albert say hello - Albert got in touch with Amy's Friends, everyone knows Albert, Albert's a fucking gem - and then it's time to go.

"Tell everyone I said good-bye."

"You don't have to go," Jack says, pushing him toward the door. The gnawing worry rematerialises instantly, and Ianto can't prevent the flicker of his eyes back and forth between Jack and his new right hand man.

Albert says, "Boss, I'll drive this one back tonight. Why don't you catch the train in the morning?" His hatchet of a face is cold and still.

Like an invisible wire, Ianto can see a line drawing Jack back to the car, back to work. Even billions of miles away, the line drew him back here to this small, wet planet.

And Jack shrugs it off, surrendering the hold for the night. "Sounds good. Call if anything important comes up." His hand slips back into Ianto's and Jack is the one leading him, and Sally, back into the pub.

If Jack's attention is split amongst the new faces he meets (Sally does the introductions) every shard he shares glows with incandescence. The saddest member of their little group can't help but perk and preen under Jack's warm light, and he grows under their reflected brightness. Ianto is nearly forgotten, and he's fine with that, taking a seat farther back, a drink at his elbow and his mind ticking things over:

- Jack's got that particular smile pointed at Sally, the one that says he's going to suggest a threesome later, but first he's interested in knowing everything she saw.

- Albert took the car, and the Parmerian.

- Nareen would be up for that threesome. So would Hal. Karl is sizing up Ianto and coming up with "not interested."

- Someone killed an alien in front of him, and got away. Bipedal, easy-running.

- Jack's not drinking, a good sign. He's been trying to re-establish his sobriety after falling off the wagon so hard he bounced.

- Sharky would know if other aliens have been killed recently, but Ianto isn't on great terms with Sharky right now.

- Nareen just slipped Jack her number. Jack takes the bit of paper with a grin, and makes as if he's sticking the number in his pocket, while with a well-practised sleight of hand he places it behind himself to be swept up when the waiter comes by next.

- Martha might be following Jack's lead on not letting Ianto be involved with anything related to aliens, but her husband won't bother.

Jack catches his eye, divests himself of his newest crop of fans with plenty of winks, and they leave, just the two of them. The hotel's within an easy walk. London doesn't care if Jack's holding his hand. London certainly doesn't mind the way Jack's fingers slide into his trousers the second the door closes, the electronic lock clicking behind them, and London can fuck right off about Jack yanking down his trousers and sucking him hard before they've even reached the bed.

Hot, wet throat, gulping at him, and firm tongue pressing on the underside of his cock, and Christ, it's all Ianto can do to hold onto Jack's head, his own head drunkenly swaying until his orgasm is wrenched from him with a loud groan that probably wakes the occupants of both rooms beside them. He grabs Jack for a kiss, but Jack's already wiping his mouth, already shucking his own trousers and pants, shirt gone, still in his vest. Ianto's legs hit the bed, and he sprawls back, watching Jack's high-speed disrobe, watching him scoop up the complementary hand cream from the tray beside the empty ice bucket.

Jack's sure fingers slick into him with greasy ease, Ianto grabbing his wrist, encouraging every move and twist. Another heavy dollop goes on Jack's hand, and he coats himself, tossing the plastic bottle to the rug absently. They fit together with a slow, sure thrust, Jack burning into Ianto with a tight moan. Jack pervs on every sexual dalliance known to humankind (and otherkind) but his favourite sex is the pure focus of skin against skin in any combination.

If Ianto wasn't so wrung-out from the day and from his own orgasm, he'd push Jack over and ride him now, rising and falling with each breath. Instead he merges his thrusts with Jack's, awkwardly timing kisses as Jack bends him in half. Whatever's eating at Jack isn't holding him back, and it's not long until his hips have picked up the distinctive pace that mean he's found his perfect friction point and he's about to come. As he bends in for another kiss, Ianto's teeth grab his lip and draw blood. Jack stutters through his peak, mouthing gibberish against Ianto's mouth, whole body trembling and rocking the bed against the wall. The neighbours probably hate them now.

After they clean themselves and crawl beneath the sheets, Jack whispers, "Don't go running off looking for trouble again. Promise me."

"I wasn't looking for trouble."

They don't settle on a compromise, but eventually, Ianto does settle to sleep with Jack's fingers entwined with his. He manages two hours before his mobile wakes him.

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

He's unsurprised that Jack won't let Ianto accompany him to the Hub after the earliest train of the morning brings them back to Cardiff. He_ is_ surprised by the sudden rage the refusal instils.

"I'm your only witness. I'm a good witness because I'm not going to try to explain away what I saw. Why can't I help you on the case?"

"It's not a case. One alien killed another, we cleaned the scene. That's all." Jack's got his keys.

"It wasn't an alien."

Jack hesitates. "All right. Let's go over it again. Can you describe the assailant?" Ianto prickles, thinking he's being made fun of, but for once, Jack appears to be open, unconsciously (or not) copying Gwen's standard 'Tell me more' stance.

"He was about my height. Definitely human." He doesn't know why he's positive, but he is.

"What did he look like?"

Ianto had this same trouble last night. "It was dark, I didn't get a good look at his face. He was wearing a hood."

"A cloak or a hoodie?"

The picture in his memory is mottled with deceptive white and orange streetlamps and the reflected wet green-grey glare of alleys. "I'm not sure."

"I'll write all that down, then." There's the light teasing again, and it burns.

"Let me go in with you."

"You don't work there." Jack kisses him on the cheek, too fast for Ianto to dodge. "I'll see you tonight."

It takes all his self-control not to put his fist through the door or throw something against a wall. He doesn't watch Jack go, and he doesn't admit to the wave of sadness overtaking the anger.

He does grab his mobile and he dials Mickey's number.

* * *

He spends the rest of the day drafting his curriculum vitae. Jack won't hear of him working for Torchwood, because Jack is a self-absorbed idiot who doesn't understand anything, so Ianto will apply for law enforcement and underwater drilling jobs, anything where his life will be endangered on a daily basis. He's aware that he's being childish, but he spends a good ten minutes fantasising about dying tragically on the job, never mind he's done that once already.

When he has a decent CV together, knowing Torchwood and the Mr. Copper Foundation will back him up with any reasonable claim, Ianto begins scanning jobs websites and placement agencies. He applies for PA positions, customer service, and anything remotely having to do with archiving. The local bookshops are starting their interviewing process for the upcoming holiday season - they do this earlier and earlier every year - and he decides to dress the part and hand in his application directly.

The first shop takes his CV and lets him know they'll be in touch.

At the second, his ex is midway through a signing.

Ianto reads the name on the board twice, but there aren't two Richard Howards writing science fiction novels. He buys a copy of the newest book and he shuffles his way through the line just to see the surprise on Richard's face.

"You're doing much better," Richard says forty minutes later, as they slide into a booth at the restaurant next door. The signing went well, with Ianto picking up smoothly as an assistant. He'll be able to walk into a job at that shop if he chooses. It's a good feeling, knowing someone somewhere wants him around.

Catching Richard's undisguised glances, the shop manager isn't the only one who wants Ianto around. He's flattered, and also sad. He hides both beneath a pleasant, thin smile.

"I am. Healed up, getting back on my feet."

"How's Steven?"

"He's back with his mother."

Richard's eyes flicker down to the menu. "You told me she died. But you told me a lot of things."

Ianto told him that his name was Nathan, that Steven's mother had died, that he was a librarian, that his own family was all gone. He'd sprinkled lies into every conversation, flavouring the new life he tried to create. "I had to. I'm sorry."

"Why did you take him?" His voice stays low, yearning for a truth he's not sure he wants. "I talked to the police over and over. Those people came to my house asking questions. They found you?"

Ianto nods, and he sits back until the waiter has taken their orders. "The whole thing was a huge mix-up. We were relocating with extended family, and there was an accident. We couldn't find them after, and they thought we'd been killed." He's been practising this lie, working the details over in his mind. "Steven and I aren't legally related, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing him, too." He floats that bone of truth amid the rest. All his best tales have been stewed together this way.

"They didn't recognise your picture."

Ianto shrugs. "Kids grow fast. I changed my hair and lost some weight. And again, they were all convinced we'd died. Jack's apologised a million times since."

He remembers the first apology, as Jack traced the outline of the TARDIS key safely tied around Ianto's neck, one hesitant fingertip drawing the shape over his bare chest. The second was embossed with a kiss at his temple. They both stopped counting after three.

"Jack's the American?" The wistful tone is far too familiar.

"He's from all over, but yes, that's Jack." Mild guilt stabs at him. "Excuse me." Ianto takes out his mobile and types a quick text, letting Jack know he's at dinner with Richard and adding that Richard is not coming home with them so don't ask.

"I wish you'd told me. I could have helped." Behind his glasses, Richard is already telling himself the story. He would have figured out a way to reunite Ianto and Steven with their family. He would have protected them from the police, and the alien underworld, and the gunshot. In his fantasies, he's a hero. It's all over his face. Ianto has always been aware the two of them have a lot in common.

"Or you'd have been in danger as well. It all worked out. We're home now, and if you hadn't spoken to the police, we wouldn't be. So you did help."

Richard glows under the implied praise. "Do you think I could say hello to Steven whilst I'm in town?"

"He doesn't live in Cardiff. He's about an hour away."

"I've got my car. We could take a trip."

"I don't think that would be a good idea." He watches the hopeful expression crumple on Richard's face. Showing up on Alice's doorstep with his ex-boyfriend cannot lead anywhere good for anyone. Showing up with his current boyfriend wouldn't be much better. "It's complicated."

"All right. You can tell him I said hello."

Their drinks arrive with the starter, bruschetta with sun-dried tomato pesto. Ianto pushes the conversation back onto Richard, asking him about the new book he's writing, gossiping about the people they both knew. He's had more comfortable conversations, but this is hardly the most unusual relationship he's had to end. Ianto dawdles over the company as much as he does the food (he opted for the Chef's pie, Richard ordered the only salad on the menu without chicken or prawns). He's recalling too clearly the cranberry taste of this man's mouth, the nervous yet eager stroke of his hands. There is no room for regret, leaving plenty for fondness and the reminders of why Richard once appeared to be a perfect break with his past.

The two all-consuming loves of Ianto's life were cast into high relief against Richard like crisp shadows straining over snow. Lisa almost killed Ianto. Jack did kill him. There's something to be treasured in a lover whose worst threat is a papercut. But a comparison in one direction invites comparison in the other. He loved Lisa with all his soul. He's frankly terrified of how much he loves Jack. He likes Richard and he could have fallen in love with him given time, but time had different plans. He's a friend, nothing more.

Ianto's mobile chirps twice, once with an acknowledgement from Jack, and voicemail from Sally he can check later.

"You're not coming back, are you?" Richard's smile has dimmed over dinner.

"This is home. My life is here." Finally. Again.

"You're applying for shop assistant jobs."

"Jack's here."

Ianto hasn't wanted to admit the only thing really tying him is Jack. Rhiannon moved on after he died. Gwen's got her own life to live, Martha too. Ianto tried to get past Jack, and kept trying, and he can't. Jack can order him never to set foot on a Torchwood case again, and Ianto will hate him for it, and he will stay at Jack's side still. If Jack returns to America, Ianto won't even stop to pack.

He will, however, phone Steven.

Richard toys with his empty glass. "He didn't know who you were. I had a snap on my phone of you and Steven, and he didn't recognise your faces. Don't tell me you lost weight. You and I only dated for a few months and I'd know you twenty years from now in a different country." Passion, and hurt, fill his voice.

The flush takes him by surprise, creeping up his neck like a stroking hand. When they were together, the relationship was based on sex (not that Ianto had started any other relationships the same way) and mutual loneliness (ditto), with a little idle daydreaming about the future (Christ, is he really so predictable?). They didn't talk about love, not that Ianto's ever been good with talking about the subject. Hell, he's only told Jack the once.

Even when he didn't recognise Ianto and Steven, even when he thought they were dead, Jack spent ages trying to find them again on a hopeless quest. If he had to, he'd have searched for them for ten thousand years on another planet. And for that and for so much more, Jack's the one he's going home to tonight.

"I love him. He loves me."

The wounded expression deepens on Richard's face. "He's going to hurt you. Blokes like him always do."

He thinks of the CCTV image, Jack dashing off across the Plass to chase a blue police box. He remembers words he hadn't even admitted to himself that he wanted to hear, "I came back for you," cut into by another explanation that left him flat-footed and lost again. He remembers little moments when he knew he was the last thing on Jack's mind, and he remembers being pushed away, with jabs at the word "couple" and a very specific "Don't" when it was too late for any other words to matter.

"I know."

Ianto pays the bill when it comes, and it's an awkward goodbye after, instead of the friendly break he hoped for. He wishes he'd walked by the store. He wishes Nathan was real, someone sweet and bookish who would have fallen in love with Richard too and would not have run away. They exchange email addresses. Ianto already knows they won't write.

Jack's not home when he gets back to the flat. Ianto drops his keys on the table by the door, shrugs off his shoes and puts away his nice interviewing clothes, then runs himself a bath. The healing scar from the gunshot wound aches as he settles in, reminding him too clearly of damaged tendons and worse. Someone shot him, someone he knows, but he doesn't know which of the three discharged their gun, and he won't ask. Knowledge will change how he interacts with his friends. He's sore and sulky tonight, soaping the skin around the puckered pink scar, and despite himself he wonders.

His mobile rings. Guilt gnaws at him for two rings and he dashes out of the bath to answer. "Hello?"

"Hey." It's Mickey. Mickey might have shot him. "We dropped in on Sharky tonight to see if he knew anything."

"Thanks for that. What did he say?"

"Nothing, on account of being dead."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

'Sharky' is … _was_ the name used by an alien who, for a not-so-modest fee, assisted other aliens as they settled in London and the surrounding area. Extraterrestrials have visited Earth for decades, perhaps even centuries, and despite Torchwood's official stance, many are no more harmful than the average gobshite on the street. Refugees from other parts of the galaxy come through the Rift, or cough along in patched-together tin spacecraft, to find sanctuary on this primitive yet thriving little green and blue world. Sharky and those like him help the newcomers find (or avoid) members of their own species and get them set up with jobs and faked papers, these refugees forming a secretive underclass who blend in as well as they can. The interest rates are pure extortion, but as Sharky used to advertise (discreetly), you can't put a price on not being dissected. Yvonne's Torchwood dogged the community, making that unnameable price very dear indeed. Jack's Torchwood has told the lot of them to keep their damn heads and pincers down and not cause trouble, or else.

Ianto went to Sharky when he needed new identification for himself and Steven. And now Sharky is dead.

"Unhappy customer?"

"Maybe. Martha's doing the autopsy tomorrow morning, and we'll know more."

"How did he die? In general?"

"Pieces everywhere, like he'd been blown up." Mickey sounds vaguely ill. "He was there for a while before we found him."

Ianto can picture the corpse too clearly. "Not good." It sounds a lot like what happened to the Parmerian. "Can I see a copy of her results when she's done?"

"Sure. We can fax the report to the Hub." There's a barb in the statement.

"I'd rather you email me."

His gambit is rewarded with a drawn-out 'Not getting in the middle of someone else's domestic issue' sigh. "Technically, I shouldn't be talking to you about this. You're not touching any Torchwood cases."

The difference between hearing the words from Mickey and from Martha is that Mickey doesn't care enough to use a nurturing-bordering-on-condescending tone. That doesn't make the experience any less humiliating.

"You're not Torchwood." A brilliant thought strikes him. "You're a freelancer. I could hire the two of you."

"You couldn't afford us."

"Mickey ... "

"I will email you the autopsy report. You do not ever tell Jack where you got it. We'll send the official report to them anyway. If this is something big, you lot will need to know."

Relief and gratitude flood him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really, really never mention it. Jack will have my head."

* * *

Interlude

* * *

Alice has become far too familiar with the pattern of blue flowers on the wallpaper in the waiting room for Steven's therapist. Three times a week, she sits out here for an hour, pretending to read six-month-old magazines or work on crosswords. Most often, she avoids the eyes of others in the waiting room, and she stares at the carpet or the wall. When Steven's session is finished, she'll go in to talk with the therapist to set up the next appointment.

"He has to trust me," the woman explained at the first session, the one Alice set a day after Steven came home. Her brown hair was speckled with grey, and she looked like a retired schoolteacher, matched that same expression of having seen everything more than once. "I won't be able to gain his trust if he thinks I'm going to turn around and tell you everything. I will tell you if he's in immediate danger, if he needs a doctor or the police, but everything else Steven shares with me has to be private."

There's still so much Alice doesn't know about what happened to him. Her child died, and he came back, and he travelled a hundred miles on his own, and fled from home to home in the care of a man Alice has absolutely no reason to trust. She herself didn't recognise him when he stood in front of her, weeping. Now the impossible has happened, and she has her baby, and he hugs her and tells her he loves her, but his eyes are always in shadow, and when he's afraid, he calls Ianto.

Worse, and it's a secret shameful thing to think of as worse, she can feel her own memories muddling, like her father has been slipping her his little pills. Alice wouldn't put him past it, except he'd have to be dosing everyone she knows. Steven died, but his school friends tease him for being held back a year. (None of them recall the memorial the school held, and when her tearful child reminds them, they mutter it off.) The Doctor came, a figure from Alice's childhood fairy tales, and now time has been put back wrong, and she is struggling to remember what's real. Did the world really go through a period where no-one could die? It's like a dream she's not meant to remember, a night terror put swiftly out of mind.

Today the therapist's inner door opens a few minutes early by the clock on the wall. Steven drags out, face pinched and shuttered. He was so happy to be home, and now he twitches at every noise. He wakes from screaming nightmares, and sobs while still asleep: "She's gone." Dark circles line his eyes, deeper today than yesterday.

Afraid of all these things and refusing to show her fear, Alice kisses his hair and goes in, leaving the door ajar. She doesn't like to be away from him.

The therapist offers Alice a chair. "I don't think we're making progress."

Alice twists the hem of her shirt in her hands. "How bad is he?"

"I wish I could say. Steven's a bright little boy. He comes in, he plays games with me, we talk. But he won't tell me about the time he was missing. Except one thing."

"What?" Her mouth feels numb, like she's licked Novacaine.

"He's invented a narrative that he died. Whatever happened to him, he's shoved the experience away in his mind, and locked it up tight. He's telling himself he was dead so he doesn't have to face what happened. You can't be hurt when you're dead."

But he did die, Alice opens her mouth to say. She can't get the words past her teeth. "In his story, he comes back from the dead," she allows, slowly. "What about then?"

The therapist shakes her head. "He won't say more than the most basic details. He travelled with a friend of yours, he came home."

"He's not my friend," Alice says too quickly, and she can see the therapist turn her attention. Alice's own therapist uses this same expression.

"Mrs. Carter, I am here to help your son. Do you have any information I should know? Are you sure Mr. Jones didn't abduct Steven himself?"

"I'm absolutely positive."

"But you don't trust him."

She doesn't. It's as simple and wretched as that. She wants to believe that Ianto took Steven in and kept him safe. Certainly her own embarrassing encounter with them on her front step proved he was taking better care of Steven than she could have with her eyes clouded by the perception filter. But her son lived with a stranger whose sole kinship to either of them was via the man who'd murdered Steven. The day Ianto was released from hospital, he went back to Jack's bed. Alice doesn't dare trust his word.

When she fails to answer, the therapist asks, "How much contact does Steven have with Mr. Jones?"

"Steven calls him every night."

"I think, for your own peace of mind, you should limit the calls. It's possible he's the one who encouraged Steven to make up the story about his death. Giving Steven more distance from his influence may allow him to remember on his own what really happened."

What really happened was that he died. He remembers clearly. But Alice will try anything to help him get past his death, get past whatever hurt him after he came back to life.

"I'll do that."

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

The photographs Martha included with the autopsy results make his stomach churn in the way it hasn't since he cleaned Suzie's body for her first interment. Sharky's second head, the one he always kept tucked inside his shirt when he was pretending to be human, is half-disintegrated, is even more otherwordly. But this is someone Ianto knew once, alien or not, and death is ugliest on a known face.

Another unhappy rush goes through him. Was his own body autopsied and laid out this way? Did Gwen or Rhiannon or Jack have to look at a stark list of details and a cold, dead thing on the slab? He came back alive, undamaged, but that's a hiccup, an accident of timelines spray-painted atop one another like overlapping graffiti. He has a grave that he's never visited, and he doesn't know if it's empty. If he opens his coffin and finds his own body rotting inside, he's not certain if he'll lay down beside it or just blow away like sand. So he's not going to look. Not yet.

Sharky's species doesn't do burial. Most of the resident aliens opt for private cremation of their remains as a final sop to secrecy, no matter what their beliefs might be otherwise. To this end, Mickey added a note that the body has already been turned over to Sharky's lover.

The damage he can see in the photos is similar to what he remembers from the Parmerian: the same kind of wounds, the same charring. Martha's notes meticulously describe the carbon deposits, and the depth of cooked flesh.

"Thanks," he sends back to Mickey.

He texts Jack. "R U busy?"

There's a long pause before the reply comes: "Y."

Heart pounding in his throat, Ianto goes back to the computer. Jack is not supposed to log into Mainframe from here, but he's done it before, and only a minute ticks by before Ianto has recovered the password. If Jack's occupied, the team is out handling something important. They won't notice Jack's credentials logging in from home.

Dr. Pol's autopsy report on the Parmerian is as detailed as the one Martha performed. The causes of death are virtually identical. A quick scan through Torchwood's recent records for dead aliens confirms the pattern in two other corpses.

Mainframe's off-site backups were never intended to host the full records, but a little digging pulls up what he's been hoping but hasn't asked about: they've restored from the backup at Torchwood Two. After Toshiko died, Ianto was saddled with technical support, and the first thing he did was to archive every record they had, everything they'd created or scanned from the old paper files at Three, and everything Tosh had managed to salvage from the surviving records of One. He burned the database to discs, and sent them all to Archie. Someone apparently retrieved the files when Ianto was away, just as he'd intended. Pride and grief burn fresh in the back of his throat. Torchwood agents live and die, and their work goes on.

He's not sure what he's looking for as he skims through file after file. Something he read when he first joined the Cardiff team? A cross-reference from a case? His memory teases him with familiarity, but what if it's because he's succumbing to the same timeline overwrites? He might be remembering details from one of Richard's same-ish science fiction novels.

There.

Clarity slaps him backwards. Torchwood once scoured the entire Empire in search of alien goods, locking away anything they found for later study. Ianto's department in London examined artefacts from cold storage, researching their origins and properties. The digital photograph of the weapon was snapped three months after he started work. He himself wasn't on that project, but he remembers his colleagues who were.

The file is complete. His own notes, made when he catalogued all the artefacts scavenged from the London site, indicated it hadn't been recovered by Torchwood Three. That left UNIT, the local authorities, and the other vultures who'd descended less officially. So much was lost: most of the stored alien technology Torchwood had spent over a century collecting, most of the lives of their people.

This isn't the first time he's found tech fallen into the wrong hands; he remembers too well running searches with Tosh to track down missing items from Torchwood London that had made their way onto the alien and alien-knowledgeable black markets. Amateurs went to eBay, the real collectors went everywhere. Henry Parker alone had scrounged hundreds of artefacts from Deep Web auction sites and clandestine transactions in alien-occupied slums. Simply cataloguing Parker's collection after his death had sent Ianto into a depression as he ticked off artefact after artefact once studied by his dead colleagues. Now another piece of alien technology has come out of someone's private stores, bought or stolen or rediscovered, and the new owner is going after alien lowlifes.

Ianto considers his options.

He can go to the new Hub, wait for them to return. He'll be scolded for interfering, and when he confesses to breaking into the system, he'll be lucky if Jack only yells. He may end up not remembering the last several days. Or more.

He can go to London. He has no idea where to begin looking, other than to retrace the route between the dead Parmerian and Sharky, look for connections between them and the other bodies. The two he knows were a druggie and a loan shark, respectively. Were the other victims criminals as well? Perhaps the killer is doing them a favour. Asking questions of the resident aliens in and around the city may turn up more deaths that haven't made Torchwood's radar.

He can play his hand close, mention to Jack over dinner or after sex that the Parmerian's death reminded him of the weapon, guide the case without directly involving himself. Torchwood London would turn a blind eye to aliens preying on each other, but Jack will want to know who's causing trouble, even if he chooses not to intervene. Ianto just wants answers, and getting that artefact back into custody would ease his mind.

The team might be back any time. He squeezes out a few minutes utilising the enhanced searches Mainframe allows, looking for police reports mentioning human victims with the same wounds. Nothing turns up.

After saving what he needs to a thumb drive, Ianto closes the connection and wipes his tracks. He uses one window to search more job openings. He uses another to map out where the weapon was used. Three of the bodies were found in London, the other in Swindon. Dr. Pol's autopsy notes on the Swindon corpse, a Hoix, include references to heavy decomposition. Ianto assumes that was the first murder. The other data points don't indicate a location pattern, and the alien community is hidden enough that more murders may never have been reported, certainly not to Torchwood.

When Jack gets home, Ianto is ready with a late supper and a bullshit story about visiting one of Amy's Friends in hospital tomorrow.

"Another overnight?" Jack sounds wistful.

"I don't have to go."

"No, it's good to see you going out. You didn't used to spend time with your friends."

Ianto doesn't say he used to not have any friends. He plays a card carefully, with a teasing smile. "You could go with me."

"Wish I could. I'm not even sure I'll be home all night tonight. Albert's running a scan, and if he turns up anything, I'll have to go back in. But," he says, seeing Ianto's practised look of disappointment, "why don't we plan something for next week? Maybe take a drive along the coast, check into the first place that looks good, scandalise the locals."

It's a good plan, one that can be modified around Torchwood's needs. In the old days, they managed this kind of getaway exactly once, only to be interrupted in the middle of the night by an apologetic call from Gwen and a hurried checkout to speed back to Cardiff.

"That sounds perfect."

He pulls the conversation around twice to the subject of the dead Parmerian, but Jack changes the subject twice, the second time with a glare. "Let it go."

"I was only curious if you'd found anything else out."

"There's nothing to find out." He's annoyed, and they finish supper in a fuming silence that fades as Jack takes the plates to the kitchen.

Ianto leaves the washing-up and takes advantage of Jack's easily distractable nature. There's no opportunity to ask detailed questions when Jack is bent over the sofa, huffing and gasping at the intrusion of Ianto's tongue and slick fingers. Ianto remembers this, remembers the thrill and the fear of Jack learning his secrets, even as Jack begs him to go faster in a broken voice. He remembers tracing the lies into the broad lines of Jack's back with lips and fingernails, and muttering obscenities into his ear instead of truths. He hasn't any room for guilt, not with Jack this tight around him, not with their bodies so close he can nearly hear Jack's thoughts racing under his skin with his pulse.

The mobile goes off two seconds before Ianto does.

Jack fumbles it, and manages to answer. Ianto's proud of the deep drag in his breath between words. Let Albert guess what they were doing. He flops to the sofa beside Jack, tingling and trembling.

"I have to go," Jack says, voice ragged as he closes the phone. He hesitates, pulling Ianto in for an open-mouthed kiss. This part is almost better than the sex: the warmth and closeness of this man, and the reluctance to leave he expresses with touch instead of words. Jack strokes his cheek and brushes away all thoughts of dead things and open graves.

* * *

Steven doesn't call.

* * *

The first thing he does is check in with Sally. On the off-chance Jack contacts her, she thinks Ianto has gone to visit Laura in hospital. He does in fact visit Laura, to say hello and drop off flowers from the shop, but her gaze is accusing, and he doesn't linger.

Torchwood London referred to the known enclaves of alien refugees as "Little Mars" or "Greentown." The first time Ianto referred to visiting "Greentown" for a Torchwood Cardiff case, Jack put him down coldly. "People get to choose their own names," he said, and Ianto was startled, both by the annoyance in Jack's tone, and by hearing extraterrestrials referred to as 'people.' Retraining his mouth has been easier than retraining his brain. As he passes through to the area of Croydon where the Forbani have their homes and businesses that cater only to one another, bad jokes run through his head.

_"What do you call a good alien? The corpse."_

_"How many Sontarans can you fit into a truck? Depends on how finely chopped they are."_

No-one's out on the street, at least no-one born on another planet. Or for that matter, whose parents or grandparents were born elsewhere. Jack says several of the alien groups that have settled on Earth did so decades ago and are as much native-born Londoners as Owen was.

He hesitates in the middle of the pavement, considering. He's here on a hunch, nothing more. If someone is killing aliens, surely the aliens themselves have taken notice. He can't just swagger into Greentown demanding answers, not like Torchwood London would, nor like Jack. But Sharky's place of business will be crawling with well-wishers and not-so-well-wishers today, and former client Lloyd Fellowes doesn't need to be seen there without more information in hand.

Nervously, Ianto picks a shop with last year's styles in the window, and he goes inside. Open for business, yes. A higher concentration of patrons than one would expect, also yes, and most of them trying like mad not to notice him. As he walks deeper into the shop, he takes in the cut of fabrics designed to minimise certain features, the patterns chosen to blend in with current clothing trends without making any kind of impression. Sturdy cottons and wools, he can tell with a brush of fingers, designed for quality wear by consumers who won't be comparison-shopping but who do have long memories for incidents of shoddy workmanship. Ianto won't find a thing that fits him here.

The first two salespeople he approaches quickly find other customers to serve.

The cashiers are at the back of the shop, which means by the time he reaches the counter, there are over a dozen aliens between him and the exit. He ought to be panicking or calling for backup right about now. Instead, he stands at the counter, hands folded, waiting to be waited on.

Finally, the boldest of the cashiers breaks away from her nervous pile of co-workers and comes to the station where Ianto stands patiently. "May I help you?" she asks, just the faintest susurration in her words. Forbani are taller and slimmer than humans, their heads rounder. The wings are vestigial, small, and easily disguised with the right clothing choices, many options on display around him. With the right hat and jacket, a Forbani is just another face in the thrum of a South London crowd.

Ianto feels the stares on his back, catches the glances the other cashiers are pretending not to give.

"I'm investigating the murder of an Uldaritan known as Sharky. I know he provided services for your community." If he tells her he's with Torchwood, he won't walk out of the shop alive.

She looks him up and down. "You're human. Why do you care?" She's not surprised to hear about the murder. The name on her tag is Christina, but many of London's resident aliens take on English names, and give them to their offspring. This offers a convenient opening for Ianto to exploit.

"I look human. Sharky got me set up a while back." Both are true statements. The Forbani aren't truth-tellers but anyone can get their hands on the right equipment. "I saw a Parmerian murdered in front of me a few days ago. It died the same way Sharky did."

Sibilant mutters pass behind his back, but he doesn't speak the language.

"Torchwood killed the Parmerian." She spits the first word like an epithet.

He shakes his head. "I know for a fact they didn't. They showed up after."

"You're wrong." She glares at him. From another door, an older Forbani male emerges, walking their way.

She says, "We don't want trouble." The way she says the words insinuates she'd like plenty of trouble, thank you, but she knows instigating same would only make the consequences on herself and her loved ones that much worse.

"I'm not here with trouble," Ianto says placatingly. "I've come to ask if you've heard of more killings."

The crowd disperses from around him, many people who don't want to be seen listening in, or who don't want to be asked questions. Even Christina fades into the background warily.

"We don't know anything," says the manager. "Buy something or get out." He brings an angry fist down to the counter. Ianto jumps. He also notices the slip of paper the manager leaves behind when he pulls the fist away, and the guarded, appraising look in the alien's eyes.

Ianto leans on the counter, palms down. "I never liked Sharky but he didn't deserve to die. I'd like to see his killer stopped before anyone else gets hurt."

He spins, aiming for a dramatic sweep but he's aware that he looks foolish.

The paper, which he doesn't read until he is well clear of the shop, says, _Tonight, ten o'clock, behind the store._

He steers clear of the butcher shops, remembering the rumours about Forbani dietary habits, and spends the next several hours asking questions no-one will answer. There's a hive of Restitits which isn't far. They're more open than the Forbani, but they're also very close-knit and have little to do with the other alien groups. The only rumour that's made it to their floppy ears is the same thing the Forbani woman said: Torchwood's in operation again, and they're back to cleaning up aliens. He doesn't dare contradict them. Enough of the regular watchers saw Jack show up at the scene of the Parmerian's murder, and a few of them know he was in Sharky's office not long ago.

Dropping by his hotel to check his email, Ianto finds a pornographic love note from Jack and a reply to an earlier email from Sarah Jane Smith. Against his better judgement, Ianto snaps a naughty webcam photo of himself, and he triple-checks the address when sending it back. Sarah Jane gets a longer, and non-pictorial, response. She's been investigating the same string of murders, and put Torchwood onto the other body they found here. Her contacts haven't yielded more victims, but everyone is on edge. Ianto thanks her and gives her the little information he's gathered today. She doesn't talk to Jack often enough to piece together that Ianto shouldn't be asking these questions.

As he eats a quick supper alone, he admits to himself that he doesn't have a good reason to pursue this. Yes, he wants answers, but the truth is, the assassin embarrassed him. Ianto had an alien in his sights, was talking it down, and someone murdered it in front of him and got away. Ianto's been doing this job for years, but he doesn't matter, not to alien killers, not to Torchwood. He's an afterthought, a useless witness who can't remember the assailant well enough for an ID. He's a _civilian_.

His hand hurts. With an effort, he focuses his eyes on the cutlery in his grip, on the glint of the low light along silvery metal, clean and sleek and sharp and oh so easy. With even more of an effort, he sets the knife down and gets up from the table.

* * *

At ten, Ianto returns to the clothing shop, and finds his way to the alley behind where the store takes deliveries. The streetlamps provide little comfort and less illumination. This area sees as much crime as anywhere else, though Ianto wouldn't try to rob the Forbani. He doesn't relish becoming a string of sausages.

There are five Forbani waiting for him beside the locked back door, including Christina the cashier and the manager. A certain turn of eye and nose suggests a familial relationship among the group, none of whom look pleased to see him. Ianto worries that he's judged them wrong and that he's not armed well enough to be here. He hates to consider his last message to his boyfriend this time around might be an emailed jpeg of his penis.

Christina breaks from her family and approaches him with something in her hand. It's a snap, he realises, as she shows him: another Forbani, a girl, perhaps ten years old in human age, with dark hair and light eyes. She's smiling winsomely at the camera.

"My sister Alisha." She gives the photograph to Ianto, although more close examination doesn't tell him anything new. Instead he tries to read the expressions on the faces around him. The little girl clearly isn't here.

"What happened to her?"

"She died. Three weeks ago." Aside from the lisp, her inflections are perfect South London, and the grief he hears is as well. A family, yes, come to Earth some time ago, raising their children and making a living on the edges together. And the youngest child has died.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Ianto takes a long moment to trace the girl's face, note the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "How did she die?"

"She was killed in the street. Walking home from playing. The other children watched, but they were children. What could they do?"

"Did they see the killer?"

"Nothing useful. He ran. And Alisha was dead." Her body will have been cremated already, nothing left for Martha to examine.

Ianto looks at the store manager. The father. "You think it's related to Sharky's murder."

The father says, "No-one cares what happens to us here. We look human, too, but not enough. Sharky was ... " he lets out a spew of syllables in no Earth-based language, but the meaning is clear.

"But he cared," says Christina to her father. To Ianto she says, "Sharky put out word to the other families. They have been kind. And there are other deaths."

"How many?"

She shrugs in a very human fashion. "Ask their families."

This is bigger than Ianto thought, and the beginnings of fear nibble at him. Torchwood has only scratched the surface.

"May I make a copy of this?" he asks her, and she glances to the woman Ianto assumes is her mother, who nods. He pulls out his mobile and snaps a picture in the dim light. "Thank you."

"They'll kill you." Christina puts her sister's picture away. "Even if you look human. They don't want us here."

"You think there's more than one killer?"

"Torchwood. They went quiet after they played with the Cybermen, and now they are back to their old tricks. If it's alien, it's dead."

Now's not a good time for bad memories. "Torchwood isn't behind your sister's murder. I will do what I can to find out who is."

She doesn't believe him. She's sure he's going to be killed. He wants to tell her Torchwood has already killed him once, but he doesn't have the heart.

* * *

Ianto phones Jack when he's back at the hotel.

"Hey," comes the warm voice at the other end. "I was just thinking about you."

"Got my email, did you?"

"I did."

Ianto settles on the bed, closing his eyes. On the one hand, phone sex sounds like a grand idea, and something to clear his head of the craziness he's uncovering. On the other hand, the mobile he's holding has a picture of a dead child stored in it, and that's enough to quash his libido for the evening.

Jack asks, "When do you think you'll be home tomorrow?"

Ianto gnaws on his lip before speaking. "Actually, I've run into some old friends and I'm thinking about staying here another couple of days to catch up."

"Anyone I know?"

"I don't think so. Some friends from when I was in London the first time." The lies roll off his tongue. "Did I ever tell you about Dustin or Gillian?"

"Doesn't sound familiar. Are they hot?"

"By your definition or mine? Because they do both have a pulse." Another lie. They both died in conversion units, screaming in pain from multiple amputations, pleading with the UNIT troops not to fire.

The memory is so clear he bites his tongue.

"All right. We're up to our arses here anyway. Gwen hasn't seen Rhys in two days and she'd throw a fit if I got to see you first."

Ianto can picture that easily enough. And he cannot deny the smile that spreads over his face each time Jack casually points out parallels between their relationship and Gwen's marriage. "Probably."

"Do you know where you'll be with your friends? I know this great restaurant in Crouch End I've been meaning to revisit, and if you like the place, we can go there sometime together." It's another wistful promise they both know won't come true.

"Give me the address. I'll suggest it." Ianto writes down the name and address of a restaurant he has no intention of visiting tomorrow.

"Don't stay in London too long."

Ianto is tempted to close the call with, "I love you," but he's filled their conversation with falsehoods, and he doesn't want to sully the words with such neighbours. If he doesn't get himself killed, he'll tell Jack properly. Over a meal or tangled together in their bed, he'll find a way.

* * *

Steven still doesn't call.

* * *

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

He starts the day with an early visit to what used to be Sharky's office. The last time he came here, Ianto had a child with him, and very little money, and the last of his dignity abandoned behind them because he couldn't carry that and Steven both. The dingy little shopfront advertises holiday packages to Bristol and Surrey and Manchester, with dusty off-white fliers on the windows and walls. The still visible bluish traces of cleaned-up blood are new. The man behind the counter, who probably isn't as human as he looks, is also new.

"My condolences," he says to the alien. He's given a curt nod. "I have some questions."

"All loans are still due repayment under the same terms."

"I repaid mine. Lloyd Fellowes. You can check the records if you want."

"We will." The tone is flat, severe, and dismissive. If Ianto isn't going to give him money, the tone says, Ianto is no longer interesting.

He takes out his mobile, and the copy of Alisha's picture. "Sharky was looking into the murder of this little girl. I want to know what he found out before he died."

At last he has the man's interest. "We're being targeted."

"I know that. But by whom?"

The outside door opens, and a pair of badly-disguised Yovers hurry in furtively, taking in Ianto with one glance before they fix the man behind the counter with a stare. "We'd like to book a holiday," one says formally.

The man dismisses Ianto without another glance. Paying customers always come first. "New to the area, are you?"

"Getting out whilst we can."

Ianto breaks into the conversation. "Have there been more killings?"

They turn their heads at an inhuman angle to watch Ianto standing to one side. "Last night."

"Where?"

"Lewisham." They turn from him and begin negotiations with Sharky's successor for a relocation plan to Leeds, effective later today. Money changes hands, and the promise of much more money. The three of them give Ianto lengthy looks as if to tell him to go away.

"Here's my number," he says finally, writing down the false name with his mobile. "I want to know if you hear more."

"I'll put it with the rest, shall I?"

"The rest?"

"They've all been here asking questions. You're the first to ask about the Forbani child."

"They who?"

He makes a gesture with his arm, revealing an extra two joints in the shrug. "I'm sure you don't want anyone else asking about you."

Ianto's not the only one investigating. That could be a blessing, or it could mean whoever's behind this is collecting their information with one hand and doling it out with one of the others. "Where in Lewisham?" he asks the Yovers, and to get rid of him, they tell him.

* * *

Lewisham doesn't cater to just one species. Ianto sees half a dozen different kinds of aliens just walking down the street. They're easy to spot, he admits, from the too-conspicuous means they use to hide, and the thick air of worry hanging over everything in this area of the city. He texted Sarah Jane on his way over, asking if she's heard anything about deaths near here. She hasn't responded yet, perhaps taking the opportunity to investigate using her own extensive means.

His inquiries turn up nothing but brush-offs until he finds the right pub. The sign says "Joe's" but when his eyes adjust to the low light, he picks out details suggesting the clientèle isn't human. The chalked menu says they have Brains on special; he's definitely not ordering. As Ianto leans on the counter, the landlord ignores him.

"What's a bloke got to do for a drink?" Ianto asks, his voice a bit loud for the small room.

"We're closed," the landlord says, in defiance of observation. His back is to Ianto, but his species is obvious.

"Out of respect for the dead?"

The Raxacoricofallapatorian turns his head. He's frightened. "Has there been another one?"

"Last night, I heard."

"That's the latest, then," he says, sighing with muddled relief. He puts on a false jolly face. "What can I get you, sir?"

"If you've got the location where last night's murder took place, that'd do." He drops a few pounds in the tip jar.

"That's all? Everyone knows that." He rattles off the address before Ianto has his pencil ready.

"Thanks. I hadn't heard. Wanted to pay my respects."

The Raxacoricofallapatorian fixes him with a stare. "That's not funny, friend."

Ianto has stepped into something again. "Sorry. Is there something I ought to know about the deceased? I only heard someone was killed."

"Panton Koris." The name is spoken with a hush, as if saying the words too loudly might summon the dead man back.

Koris. Ianto's heard the name somewhere before. "Wait. Not the gangster?"

"I don't know anything about that," says the landlord in a hurried voice. "If you're not going to order, you're taking up valuable space. I'm going to ask you to loiter elsewhere."

"Right. Thanks for your help." Ianto strolls back outside into the bright day, dazzling after the dim pub.

Shit. Panton Koris. Sharky was one of the little fish, so to speak, but Koris runs Greentown, or whatever the hell Jack wants him to call this loose affiliation of scared aliens. Ran. With a well-greased claw, firm and unfair but unfair to everyone, a small stake in every business, and plenty of connections to human crime. Even Torchwood London hadn't been able to touch him.

Plenty of Koris's hirelings surround the murder scene, hugely apparent in broad daylight, but no humans will get close today, and that includes Ianto.

A few more careful questions yield an important development: the second in command of Koris's operation will be speaking tonight at a large gathering at what passes for the local school. Attendance isn't mandatory but it's encouraged.

"We're going to talk about what happened," says his source, a steely-gazed Arcturan. "And maybe talk about what we're doing next. The humans are coming after us, we'll go after them. No more hiding."

"And those of us who look human?" No-one's questioned his story on that, at least.

"Stay home. Lock your door." The Arcturan brandishes a pseudopod like a fist.

"Thanks for the advice."

* * *

Ianto's certain the meeting is a terrible idea. If the killer is going after aliens, a large gathering will be too tempting to pass up. As he sits at a human-leaning café, he texts Jack a hello and wonders what on Earth he's going to do next.

That's not entirely true. He's going to the meeting. He's going to keep watch in case the murderer with an old Torchwood artefact shows up. He's not precisely certain what he'll do after that, as he has no weapons, no backup, and no plan.

The mobile rings with Jack's number. "Hello."

"Hey, I miss you." It's the sweetest thing Jack's ever said on the phone, and Ianto is momentarily nonplussed.

"Oh. I was going to open with 'How's the weather?'"

"Rain. How's the meeting with your friends going?"

"Splendid."

"Really?"

"No. I'm remembering why I didn't spend time with them."

Jack laughs. "Then why don't you take a train back tonight instead? I'm tied up with a case, but I could ask Rhys to pick you up from the station. I'll bring you breakfast in bed tomorrow morning."

"I wish. I promised them we'd take in a show tonight. One last stab at trying to have fun."

"You kids and your fun," Jack chides, but there's no meanness in the teasing. "What show?"

"I'm not choosing it, so I don't know for sure."

"Go West End. I used to know a lot of actors from the area." Jack's tone has wandered into his 'remembering shags of yore' zone.

"Consider it suggested. Jack," he starts, and hesitates. If he's right, if the killer is coming tonight, there's a very real chance he's going to die, and he wants things to be right with Jack this time, but he doesn't know how. There's a depth of emotion he's unable to express in the same conversation where he's pretending to like musicals. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll drive up and get you, you know. If I have to."

"Promise me a repeat of what happened the last time you drove to fetch me in London, and we have a deal."

"I don't do repeats. I do innovative transformations of previous concepts."

As a come-on, it's curiously formal, and also just intriguing enough that Ianto wants to know what he's got in mind. "Tomorrow, then."

He hears Gwen's voice in the background, and if Jack was anywhere near an endearment, the window is now closed. There's a soft click as he rings off.

Ianto dials Mickey next. "I can afford you," he starts. "I need your help. I think I know where Sharky's killer is going to strike next, but I don't have a gun."

"You've been spending too much time with Jack. Most people start with, 'Hello.'"

"I'll call your wife next." It's not much of a threat, and one that's quickly flattened.

"My wife has informed me in sleeping-on-the-couch-until-I'm-forty terms that I'm not to give you any more help."

"Did she say why?"

"Leave off. We're on the case now, and we're the professionals. We'll let you know what we find out. Stay clear of it."

"Is that what she said or is that what you're saying?"

"Same applies either way, mate. I'm not getting in trouble at home over you, and if you want me to return the favour, drop it." Mickey rings off abruptly.

Return the favour? The last thing he needs is Martha or Mickey phoning Jack to let him know what Ianto's really been up to. And they would, Martha especially. She is his friend, and she wants him to rest and recover and all those boring things, and she's Jack's friend, and knows Jack will be happy to wrap Ianto up with warm towels and keep him safe for the rest of his days.

There will be no help from them. He's still waiting to hear back from Sarah Jane, but what if she's privy to Jack's current insistence as well?

He makes one more call.

"Hello," Alice says, a worried note in her voice.

"Hi, Alice. It's Ianto." He clears his throat. "May I talk to Steven, please?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to be busy tonight with friends. We're going to a show. I wanted to say hello and let him know, because I won't have my mobile on if he calls." They haven't spoken in a few days, the longest time they've spent without contact in over a year.

"He won't be calling tonight."

"Oh. Have the nightmares finally stopped?"

"We're dealing with them. He'll be fine."

"All right. Is he still seeing the same therapist? He didn't like her very much."

She pauses for long enough he thinks the call has dropped. "Ianto, why are you calling?"

"I wanted to say hello."

"I think it's best if you don't. Steven needs to readjust to his life here. Every time he talks to you, he gets upset."

Steven calls when he's already upset, but Ianto isn't going to point that out. "He's been through a lot."

"Yes, he has." Her voice is breaking. Her heart is breaking. But she shouted at them and sent them away. "He needs to understand that his dad and I are the ones to talk to when he's sad. He has to tell _us_ what's going on in his head if we're going to help him get better, not a stranger."

The word stings with the old fears drilled into his own head as a child. Strangers are bad men who lurk in cars and take away kids who aren't careful. Strangers will touch you and hurt you.

Steven never talks about what happened before he reached Amy's door.

"I'm not a stranger." Ianto was his dad for a while, but that's not something easily explained, and it's over now. Not like Joe. Joe may have walked out of Steven's life, but he can have visits and call when he likes, no objections, no insinuations. No questions why he spends time alone with a little boy.

Ianto tries another approach. "We're friends."

"You are far too old to be his friend. Look, I'm not saying you can't ever see him again. I'm just asking you to leave us be for a while. Let him try to get back to a normal life."

He won't get anywhere arguing with her. Jack's indicated that enough times. And isn't this what he always wanted for Steven? A normal life back with his real family?

"I'm sorry for bothering you. Call me when you think he can. I don't ... I don't want to cause you trouble."

"Thank you. We'll call. Give us some time."

It's the third bad ending to a phone call in the last twenty minutes. He's not going to risk another.

* * *

The meeting is scheduled for eight o'clock, but the streets outside bustle with scared aliens well before. Everyone's on edge, startling at noises. Ianto has added a hat and he draws his coat around himself to look more like someone trying to blend in. He's human in a place where humans aren't welcome tonight. He sticks to the sidelines, watching the shadows. He has plenty from which to choose, and more than once, he spies movement that could be trouble, but it's gone before he can investigate. Cloaked and hooded figures are many tonight, though so are plenty of aliens who dress like humans. As he watches, two adolescent Parmerians walk by in matching Whyteleafe supporter shirts, and they're more concerned with giving dirty looks to blokes in Rochester United colours than with scanning the gathering for murderers. Ianto is only one face in the crowd. So's the killer.

This is a bad idea. Without help, without a gun of his own, he's as vulnerable as the rest of the people here. More, he notes, discerning badly-camouflaged weapons. He rests with his back against a convenient wall as the school's doors open.

Hired muscle, late of Panton Koris and now in the employ of his successor, guard the doors and smack the heads of anyone armed. "Not here, you dumb E.T.!" bellows the bigger one. He himself is armed as are his companions, but no-one else is being allowed inside with any guns.

It's worth a thought that Koris's successor arranged this whole thing in order to take out the competition.

Ianto makes his way in with the crowd, even managing (he's proud of this) to fart on cue when he gets a too-curious question why he's here. Thank God the skinsuit technology has been improving because he's not heavy enough to get away with the counterfeit otherwise. They wave him through, with a mild cuff to the back of his head for good measure.

He breaks off as soon as he can to find a high vantage point to watch the auditorium. The gathering is huge, and noisy, and noisome as well. Farts aside, many alien species have a distinct odour, and they all jostle in his olfactory sense like there's a circus with extra elephants going on below. Shouting elephants, he muses, as most of the hullabaloo surrounds demands for what's going on, and what's being done.

"Why should we pay you protection money when it didn't even protect Koris?"

"My spawn isn't safe here! How can we keep our families from being killed in the street?"

Only one Forbani couple is in the crowd with the rest, not shouting, but edging next to the stage in order to hear the new boss's replies.

Koris's successor looks nearly human, except for the mandibles. He wears a crisp suit that Ianto can tell cost four figures, and the sleek lines only accentuate the alien's sharp edges. This one has been a second-tier mobster longing for the top for years, hungry and ready to snap up the opportunity to lead. Ianto suspects him more and more even as he tries to calm the crowd and get order.

There.

Across the way on a catwalk, a humanoid figure crouches in the same shadows Ianto's using for concealment. It's hidden in a deep, hooded jacket, scanning the crowd with a sharp turn of head.

When the shadow shifts, he sees a gun in its grip.

Ianto slithers out of his own hiding place, trying to map out the fastest route over without being seen. His feet nearly tangle beneath him in his hurry. Fear pounds in his mouth, but there's no-one else unless he calls the burly guards. By the time they could climb up here, the killer will have vanished, perhaps will have killed again.

A bloody memory of the Parmerian's death comes back to him as Ianto dashes through the empty corridor towards the other side of the auditorium: burned from inside, the body exploding outward like an egg left in a microwave.

The murderer slaughtered a little girl that way. He manages to run faster.

The door leading out to the catwalk is unlocked. He turns the knob silently, hoping to sneak up on the killer, take him down without himself getting shot. The door opens onto more goose-grey shadows, and one is exiting out the other end.

"Shit."

If he chases across the catwalk, he'll make too much noise. Ianto spins and heads down the corridor at a run, tearing around the corner in the direction he saw the shadow go. He didn't fire. Why didn't he fire? Was he looking for a better place to hide?

The form is turned away from him, heading towards the side where Ianto stood minutes ago, from his own perfect vantage point. He could line up the speaker, who is below them launching into prepared notes: their community must pull together in their time of need; they must not talk of going to war with the humans; they must as a group reach out to their human friends and allies now. The voice booms and echoes from the loudspeakers placed around the ceiling, hurting Ianto's ears and covering his steps as he runs at the killer.

Ianto tackles him, smashing both bodies to the ground hard. He reaches for the gun, but there's a sharp elbow out of nowhere into his side followed by a hard punch to the face that stuns his vision and shoves him off.

Desperate, he kicks out, connecting with a knee and dropping the man again to the ground. Ianto gets in another punch, but the killer rolls away, so it doesn't connect hard, and he's on his feet faster than Ianto.

The hood has come loose, and the weapon is raised. Ianto manages to get his head up, blinking in pain and confusion. He stares down the barrel, and sees Albert's sharp face.

* * *

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

"Fuck!" Albert's swear almost cuts over the loudspeaker. The gun is huge in his hand, and Ianto is nearly too panicked but he doesn't misidentify it. This isn't the heat gun, this is standard-issue.

"Where'd you hide the weapon?" Ianto demands, aware that he's about to die. Again.

Albert ignores him, jabbing a finger in his ear and keeping his gun trained on Ianto. "I'm up top. Get here now. Things just got complicated."

He's working with a partner. The Yovers thought as much. No wonder everyone's blaming Torchwood if Albert's involved. And he's got an accomplice. Fuck.

Ianto tenses. He can't rush Albert now, and he has to stay alive long enough to tell Jack. Send him a message somehow. His skin crawls as he hears footsteps clattering closer. They'll tie him up somewhere, dispose of the body later.

He turns to see the other killer.

"Oh, shit," Gwen says. Her face puts on a very familiar expression of disgust. She looks at Albert. "Did you see anyone else?"

"I thought I did. Maybe I didn't." He's still aiming at Ianto.

"Put the gun down," Gwen says, and she gives Ianto a hand up. She's wearing a dark hoodie, blending in with Albert and the other aliens in the building.

"It fits," says Albert. "You have to admit, he fits the profile."

"What profile?" Ianto asks angrily, still adrenalin-rushed. Albert's the killer. But Gwen's working with him. But Gwen _wouldn't_. Should the world come to an end in fire and brimstone, Gwen Cooper's bleeding heart will be rescuing stranded kittens from smouldering trees. "What's going on?"

Albert glowers. "Someone's using technology last seen at Torchwood London to kill and terrorise the locals, and it comes to my mind that you've been spending an awful lot of time here lately." He still has his gun trained. "And you were the only witness to the Parmerian's murder."

Gwen says, "Don't be stupid. Put the gun down."

Ianto says, "I know, I've been trying to track the killer."

"Sure."

"Albert," Gwen says, "it's not him." There's a burning, buzzing shot from down below, followed by screams. "Shit!"

The three of them run for the stairs. Gwen shouts, "Get the doors!" She runs, gun drawn, for the front door to cut off the killer's escape.

Albert grabs Ianto's arm, nearly breaking bone in his clenched grip. "You're not going out of my sight." He half-drags Ianto to another door, in time to be almost crushed by the stampede of terrified aliens fleeing the building come hell, high water, or Torchwood. As it is, they're able to stay alive by standing to the side and craning their necks in a vain hope of seeing the fleeing murderer.

"We had this," Albert says to him in a low, vicious voice. "We had a plan, and we had it covered, and thanks to you, someone else is dead."

"If I'd known you were here, I wouldn't have tried to come in alone."

"You're not supposed to come in at all. You don't work for us. The last thing we need is some enthusiastic amateur!"

"I've been working for Torchwood since 2005, so you can fuck right the hell off!"

They've stopped paying attention to the trickle of aliens still escaping. With nothing to see here, Albert drags him back towards the auditorium, finger in his ear again. "We're coming in. How bad is it?"

"It could be worse," says Mickey, coming in from another part of the building. "No joy?"

"None."

"Thought I told you to stay home," Mickey says to Ianto, who doesn't answer. "Well, the bad news is, the guy shot and killed someone."

Ianto flinches. Had he not come, it's possible the killer would be in custody now, and the victim still alive.

They walk together into the auditorium, where Martha and Gwen are trying, with little success, to explain to Mopolite (the angry alien gangster in the nice suit, Ianto learns) how they managed to miss the killer during their otherwise perfectly-planned event. Jack doesn't help them, on account of being in bloody, cooked chunks all over the auditorium's ruined floor. Dr. Pol is clucking her tongue in annoyance as she collects the bits, putting a stump of a leg back more or less where it will attach to the rest of his body. Her sense of smell isn't as good as a human's, ergo she probably doesn't mind the broiled pork odour hanging heavy around them.

Ianto's gorge rises. Mickey says, "The good news is, he'll be up and about in a while."

Albert adds, "And when he is, he's going to fucking kill you."

* * *

Jack revives with remarkable speed, given the manner of death. He's wincing, joints tender after knitting, and he has to sit down, but he's lucid enough to take over the discussion with Mopolite. The facility is secured, Martha and Mickey have gone home. This leaves Torchwood, their quickly-estranging ally and his henchmen, and Ianto, who's been exiled to one corner of the auditorium and told to stay put or else. He takes the opportunity to check his messages. Steven called, despite his mother's wishes, and doesn't hide the hurt that Ianto didn't answer. Sally called to inform him in a halting voice that Laura made a third, and final, attempt.

Tonight just gets worse.

"You promised us a capture, Captain. I put my people into great jeopardy because I trusted your ability to bring this monster in." Mopolite isn't like the rumours Ianto knew of Koris. Koris was an elegant thug, risen to prominence with a combination of protectionism and the firepower to back up his promises. Mopolite slithered up through that organisation, but with his brains instead of his fists.

Jack is conciliatory. "We'll get him. We managed to bring him here."

"Yet he escaped unscathed, and he killed again along the way. Your recovery is a coincidence. He was aiming for me."

"And I got in his way. You're welcome."

Mopolite's gaze turns to the corner, meeting Ianto's eyes before Ianto drops his head. "Your group did catch someone who was acting suspiciously and who distracted them when the murderer struck. My contacts tell me someone matching his description has been seen at many of the sites of previous attacks. Are you sure he isn't involved?"

"Positive." Jack doesn't look at Ianto. The utter conviction in his voice is as solid as a spear.

"Captain, we need answers. You did not present me with the killer as you said you would. My community is terrified for their lives. It would ease their fears to know we have the killer's accomplice in custody." 'Custody' is a pleasant word, and means, 'We will hold him still as the mob exacts what they perceive as justice.'

"Ianto's not the killer's accomplice. He's been working for me on the case, examining other angles. I sent him to the sites of the previous murders to talk to witnesses who wouldn't otherwise open up to an official Torchwood inquiry."

Back in the day, Torchwood London spent tens of thousands of pounds on a project based around alien lie-detector technology. Two scientists theorised that the machines operated by measuring previously unknown subquarkian particles carrying falsehoods between speaker and listener, known around the office as 'lie-ons.' The research team was disbanded and separated to other projects after one too many 'tests' with their expense reports.

The temerity of such a bald-faced lie as Jack is laying on now should be enough to suck out the falsehood-telling power for the surrounding ten blocks. Ianto can practically hear a dozen insurance salesmen frozen in mid-sentence, unable to squeeze out a single additional fib. For weeks to come, Londoners about to speak untruths on the 'little white lie' level will find themselves suddenly telling their friends exactly what they think about that new haircut.

Mopolite blinks at Jack, then at Ianto, and he takes a long look at Gwen and Dr. Pol, neither of whom say a word. "Your team indicated otherwise."

"Unofficial. I told you." Jack's not budging from his story.

Before Mopolite can push further, Albert clears his throat. He disappeared a while back, and has returned with a camera in hand. "Boss, we've got his picture."

Jack bounces up from his seat with only a small flinch. "Fantastic. Show me."

Albert replays the video capture for the group to see, crowding around. Ianto can't see from his spot, but he reads the faces, sees recognition and acknowledgement. Gwen says, "It's definitely the same man." She tells Mopolite, "We have CCTV footage from two of the murders."

Jack says, "But this is the best clarity we've seen. Nice job, Albert." He swivels the camera screen to show Mopolite again. "Are we agreed this is the guy who tried to kill you?"

"That's him," says one of the heavies, from behind Mopolite. His boss turns and glares at the interruption, but his stance cools, and he shrugs.

"Agreed."

"I've got connections in the government," Jack says, "and they owe me. I'll put out the word. The human authorities can begin a search. We'll make up charges against him that will bring him in, and we'll deal with him then."

"Human authorities don't have the right."

"Maybe not, but they've got the resources. I told you we'll handle this, and we will."

"How many more will he kill before you do?"

Jack says, "Tell your people to stay inside and keep their heads down."

"They always do that, Captain. We are tired of hiding and being afraid." But he agrees to Jack's terms, and lets Jack take all his people home, including Ianto.

* * *

They've brought multiple vehicles, which means Ianto has the delightfully awful opportunity to drive back with Jack alone. Jack drops by the hotel for Ianto to grab his belongings. He says nothing until they are on the M4. It's like waiting for an execution, only without a last meal or a chance at reprieve.

Finally, he can't stand the tension. Defeated even before they begin the shouting match, Ianto says, "Just say it."

"Get the camera."

"What?"

"The camera. I put it in the back seat. Pick it up."

Mystified, Ianto reaches around until his fingers find their one piece of evidence. He can't imagine what Jack wants him to do with it. He wouldn't take dirty pictures on something they'll need to submit to scrutiny later. Right?

"You didn't watch the video capture back there. Watch it now."

Ianto works out the buttons and replays the video. Sure enough, there's a cloaked figure, head exposed this time, aiming and firing at the speaker. Jack dodges into the way at the last second, taking the brunt of the blast and exploding into horrific pieces. The scene is remarkably similar to the death of the Parmerian.

"All right."

"Watch again. Look at the killer."

Ianto does as instructed. The bloke is plain, completely unremarkable. Ianto vaguely tries to superimpose his face over that of the killer who struck the Parmerian down. The countenance is so bland Ianto has trouble even forming a description. "It might be him."

"Does he look familiar to you?"

Ianto freezes the frame, with a particularly good view. "Not really. No." His eyes start to water staring at the small screen.

"All right."

"I'm sure we can put him through a database and find out who it is."

"We already have a positive identification."

That's surprising. "Then why haven't you brought him in or had the authorities make an arrest?" Ianto thinks hard. "Is he human?"

"He's human. His name is Nathan Reynolds. Take another look."

The name strikes a chord somewhere inside his head, and he tries to fix the face, but he can't keep looking. "I knew a Nathan Reynolds. Back at Torchwood London. This isn't him." He can feel the hysteria edging his own voice, and he doesn't know why. "Someone else with the same name?" The question ends on a high-pitched squeak that hurts his throat.

"Ianto, listen to the words you're saying." Jack's voice is mild, not chiding. "It's the same guy." Ianto expected an argument when he got into the car. This is like swimming out past his level into the deep, choking sea.

"But I knew him." Nathan was his friend, one of the early friends, a little caustic, but happy to make chums with the new recruits. After Ianto was swept up by Lisa's effervescence, the camaraderie had faded, yet Ianto still mourned when he read Nathan's name amongst the list of the dead. He took on the man's identity when he restarted his new life with Steven.

Nathan is dead.

"Jack?"

"As soon as we saw the first couple of deaths, we looked into every possible source. I didn't know if we were seeing the beginning of another turf war, or if someone big was moving in, or if some idiot got their hands on alien tech."

"The weapon is from Torchwood One. It's listed as missing. I searched the archive remnants." Ianto lets go of more of his guilt for having gone behind Jack's back.

Jack glances at him. "It took us a week to track that down. You?"

"About twenty minutes."

The glance turns from concerned to impressed. "Remind me to have you train Lois on how you organised everything."

A warmth blooms somewhere below his navel, heady and joyful. Jack has just as much as promised Ianto will be allowed to return. "I will."

"So. Torchwood London. And for some reason, I can't imagine why, I guessed if you got wind of that, you'd go off half-cocked on your own."

The warmth is gone in a cold splash, replaced by shame. He had. He'd taken the insult personally, doubly so when he figured out where the weapon was from, and he'd stomped all over their investigation, ruining Jack's best lead. "I wanted to help." It's mewling, pathetic, and he knows it.

"You didn't know what you were doing, and you nearly got someone killed."

Not 'nearly': Jack died, even if Jack rarely counts his own deaths as important. It's too low and cheap a shot to ask if they're even now, and anyway Jack is still busy calling him on the carpet. "You could have got yourself killed." The mild tone is still there, but Ianto isn't fooled any longer. Jack is furious.

"I'm sorry."

"Not good enough. You broke into our systems, and believe me, when Albert puts together that you used my credentials to log in, he will shoot both of us. You jeopardised our investigation. And you lied to me."

Anger and annoyance flood him. "You shut me out. You've admitted I could have helped with the investigation. I did my own field work without any help."

"You cannot work on this investigation, Ianto. You can't even see the suspect."

"Of course I can see him! I saw him kill an alien in front of me!"

"Then what does he look like?!" Jack's shouting. Ianto's shouting. The car is far too small for this.

"Like … " He glances down at the camera again. "It was dark."

"Your friend Sally gave me a description that matched Nathan Reynolds perfectly."

"He's dead. He died at Canary Wharf." Jack is silent, and it's the silence that finally gets through. "He came back."

"Yeah. And you knew him."

The world is not as it was. The world has been recreated by the memories and dreams of a beautiful young woman. The death and rebirth of the TARDIS cracked holes in the fabric of time, left gaps in the memories of friends. Without a counter filter, Ianto can stand in front of his old friend for hours and he'll never see his face. "Oh."

"I do know what I'm doing most of the time. When I say you can't be involved with something, I usually have a good reason." Not affection, then, or not only affection. Jack's been protecting him, just not in the way Ianto thought.

"So you are going to reinstate me after this case is resolved?"

He's caught Jack out in the trap now, and he can see the uncertainty playing over Jack's features, reflected in the lights from the traffic passing them by. "I don't want to," Jack says after a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Because you don't trust me."

"Because I don't want to watch you die again." All the ire is gone now, leaving only bleak despair. "Because I offered to sacrifice the world in exchange for your life twice."

Neither offer worked. Ianto remembers too well the moments before his death. Jack gave him only the bare details of his own attempted suicide-by-collapsing-Rift. Both times, Jack walked away alone.

"Even if the world can survive a third time, _I can't_. Everything ended with you. Everything turned to ashes. I couldn't breathe on this planet. I couldn't outrun your ghost on any other planet, and I _tried_. I shattered after what happened, and I'm not better. I can pretend for a while. I pretended for Gwen's sake for a long time, but I'm not … I'm not okay. You're home, and Steven's home, and everyone else seems to think that's enough, that I ought to be fine now, even though I killed you both." Jack sounds like he's dying here in the car, speaking through wounds too deep to crust and scab.

"I can pretend to be fine. But not when you're eager to throw your life away again. Not when all I can wonder is when the next time's gonna be, when I'll have to stand there weighing you against the rest of the planet. I can't do this again."

Jack's hands are white on the steering wheel. Ianto points to a place coming up. "Pull over there." He's as gentle as he can be, indicating the spot, and Jack pulls the car over, finally turning his head to look.

Ianto has been through hell, but Jack's lived there for years. Centuries. Stress and heartache are naked on his face. Ianto is still hurt and still angry, but these are secondary considerations now. He pulls Jack into an embrace, holding him as Jack's shoulders shake. All pretences gone, Ianto holds him.

* * *

It's morning, after, and Ianto wakes in sleepy confusion to the first beeps of Jack's alarm. They're wrapped around each other like cats, which would be a cosier mental image except he's hot, and there's a pinched nerve down his side from sleeping this way.

This isn't the morning he anticipated. As soon as things went to hell last night, Ianto expected a dressing down, the possibility of losing his memories of the past week, and a small yet terrifying possibility of losing the last several years. As they dress, paranoia drives him to check, ever so casually, the date on Jack's mobile. He hasn't lost any time except the four hours they slept after arriving home so late. That's reassuring.

Jack makes breakfast, and Ianto washes out the mugs from last night, rinsing the rime of dried milk. He didn't expect to fix warm milk with a shot of brandy for his lover, but he also didn't expect the terrible, guilty revelation that said lover has been experiencing a nervous breakdown on constant loop since 2009, nor that with time slips factored in, 2009 was over twenty years ago for Jack. Even now, as Jack rummages in the cupboard for honey, Ianto observes the well-disguised expression, and the jerky puppet motions of Jack's muscles when he's not trying to hide. Ianto has been back in his life for over a month, and he never noticed; ergo as much as he's tempted to do so, he can't blame Gwen for not noticing when it was her turn to watch out for Jack.

Disguise is part of who they are, and the tremors are tucked away like a shirt tail when Jack glances over to him. "Are you wearing that today?"

Ianto blinks, taking a surreptitious look at his own jeans and jumper to check for stains or rips. "I was." Lazing about the flat clothes, cleaning the flat clothes, he's got a dresser full, purchased for him before he left hospital with Jack's money and Gwen's taste.

"All right." Jack serves them both porridge, dumping enough honey into his own that Ianto's molars cringe in sympathy. They sit down to eat, and this is all surreal. Ianto is still angry from yesterday. He knows Jack is still angry with him. But this is the pair of them, eating breakfast at their little table and not mentioning the wrenching sobs Jack fell asleep with last night. After Jack leaves, Ianto will do the washing up, and he will make supper tonight, and ask Jack about his day, and it's possible they will still be angry with each other, and it's equally possible Ianto will call Rhys and ask him how the fuck he does this.

Caught up in the unwinding banality of the day to come, he almost misses when Jack says, "We should stop by the new bakery on Bute Street. I like their muffins, and Albert's pissy when his blood sugar is low."

Ianto tries and fails to imagine Albert in a good mood. He owes the man, certainly, because Albert saw Steven's picture and recognised him when no-one else could have, but he doesn't have to like him, especially after last night. "Is that a subtle hint you want me to bake something for tomorrow?"

"No, it's a reminder. Don't let me drive past." Jack slurps down his last bite, waits ten seconds for Ianto to finish, and drops the bowls into the sink with running water. "Are you ready?"

"For?"

"Work. You said you're our only witness, which isn't true, but I can't leave you home unattended so you may as well come with me and do something useful." The anger is still there. So's the uncoiled damage. Jack sweeps everything under the rug with a raised eyebrow. "Interested?"

Hope slams into him. "Give me five minutes to change."

They don't have the stopwatch any more, but Jack touches his own watch meaningfully, and Ianto is back in the bedroom like a shot, tearing through his wardrobe for a shirt.

* * *

They're halfway to the bakery when reality sets in with a shocking cold. "I can't go in."

"Why?"

"I'm not an employee. You've said."

"You were. And to be honest, if working for Torchwood ended with death, I'd've had to reapply about a thousand times by now." His driving has improved, Ianto has noticed. Jack is more cautious these days, and Ianto uses this as a distraction for a moment, watching the movement of his muscles, watching him check his mirrors before lane changes.

"We made Owen stand down."

"How many hours did that last again?"

Ianto sighs. He's not really worried about the employment paperwork. If worse comes to worse, he'll sign everything for Queen and Country a third time. "After yesterday, they're going to hate me."

Had Jack brought him in two days ago, this wouldn't be a problem. He would be the returning soldier, the senior agent over the three new people, wounded in battle but come back from death to fight again, and a lot of other rot he's let himself imagine every morning Jack has said no. Today, he's the idiot who let a serial killer get away.

"Probably."

"And they're going to think you're only letting me back because you're making special allowances for me." He doesn't want to say 'because we're together' but it makes no difference if the reason was 'because you said so.' Back in the old days, Jack's bouts of favouritism had come close to wrecking half the interpersonal relationships on their team. Some things don't change.

"Yeah."

Right. Ruined the plan _and_ Teacher's Pet. Ianto wants to sink through his seat into the running boards. Jack catches his sick expression, and nods once. He's always been creative in doling out punishments.

"How bad is it going to be?"

"I figure Gwen will play nice, because she's been nagging me to bring you back in, but she'll chew my ear off in private for doing it today. Dr. Pol won't speak to you unless she has to. Albert will try to get you killed at least twice, until I tell him to knock it off."

"No chance of you having that conversation with him early?"

"None. If I tell him in advance, he really will assume you're only around for me to play with on breaks."

That's not difficult to picture. "What about Lois?" She seems sweet, but he knows from personal experience that the PA is the one who smiles brightest when they're stabbing you in the neck.

"Hard to say. Did I tell you she poisoned me once?"

"No. What did you do to her?"

"I insulted her by accident, she thought I did it on purpose. Looking back, I should have kept my mouth shut. We don't talk about it much."

"I meant after."

"Oh. Docked her two days' pay and made her clean up the mess. She's promised not to do it again." He shrugs off the death like he would a glass of water splashed in his face. But that's Jack all over. He finds the most damaged, unconventional workers possible, deals with them when they inevitably fuck up, and forgives them so they can move on. If Suzie hadn't topped herself after all the murders, he would have forgiven her too. As today's recipient of the Captain Jack Harkness Reconciliation Award, Ianto can't complain, but he does find room to be astounded.

His reintroduction goes just as predicted: Gwen embraces him when he enters the new office for the first time, and the rest of the team stands back, shooting Jack suspicious looks. Jack affects to ignore the tension, and he treats Ianto exactly like any other employee with the offhand orders he barks. It's peculiarly reminiscent of Ianto's return after his suspension, although neither Albert nor Dr. Pol leave anything dead or drippy for him to clean up like Owen did every day until Jack shouted at him to stop being such a slob. Still, Ianto keeps to himself at the work station Jack assigns him. He follows Jack's instructions to locate any mentions of unusual deaths in the human population that might be linked. He only eats from the bag of treats Jack purchased on their way in, waving off Lois's offers of coffee as politely as he can.

Police reports drone into one another, leaving him room for his mind to wander and his ears to catch the muffled noises from Jack's new office as Gwen gives him an earful behind closed doors.

While they're occupied, Albert gives himself reasons to be in Ianto's space, fidgeting with the safety on his gun and grumbling. "Could have got him," is the only phrase that comes through clearly. The threats are muted enough to ignore. Ianto gets his own in the early afternoon, as Albert fails on a task that Toshiko would have waltzed through easily, and Ianto says so.

Gwen waits to corner Ianto. It's not until he's gone to the sad little room that does for their archive that she follows him in with that expression writ large on her face, the one he knows from long experience means she is going to have her say. To be honest, he finds the familiarity encouraging, even welcome. Being on the receiving end of a Gwen Cooper remonstration is the closest to home this new Torchwood has felt since he walked through the reinforced steel door this morning. Her arms are folded and her face is cross. He oughn't feel so light-hearted, and if he smiles, she'll probably smack him.

"Do you remember how things were after we lost Owen and Toshiko?"

That isn't the question he's been expecting, and Ianto pauses, one hand resting on a pristine new folder. "Yeah."

"So you recall what Jack was like."

Self-destructive. Right after, there wasn't a deadly peril he didn't throw himself in front of, either to save someone or not. Given all the times he must have died underground during his long not-quite-sleep, he added almost fifty more deaths in the following two months out of grief.

They all have their ways of coping. Gwen's is to tell herself stories until she makes herself believe what happened wasn't her fault, and to sob the rest out. Ianto copes by binging on whatever's at hand, be that beer, food, drugs (just the once), or most commonly in recent years, sex. He would have drowned his sorrows for his lost friends in the bottom of a glass, but Jack was closer, and warmer, especially when he came back from yet another death brought on by his own attempts at atonement.

"I remember."

"He loved them like his own children. I never once saw him treat Toshiko as anything less than his own daughter. Tell me you know that."

He does. And he also observed Jack with Owen and gradually came to wonder if Owen's missing and never-named father might be closer than anyone thought.

"He lost them and that Gray all at once, and he mourned them, and he went on. No matter how much he cared."

"I know." He's not sure where this is headed, and his stomach tenses. The small, dark room closes in with just the two of them, reminding him of a confessional. Gwen's meandering around her point.

"Good. Because you need to know who you are."

"I do." He's gone through multiple names and false identities over the last year, but Ianto knows exactly who he is. The rest of this conversation is a bed of confusion.

Her mouth draws into a displeased moue. "After you went away," and she uses the same hesitating emphasis she does when mentioning Jack's deaths, like a genteel prodding at a spongy uncomfortable spot, "he broke. He didn't go on, he didn't pick up the pieces and move on. He ran, and when he couldn't run any more, he came back. I watched him. He tried, and he managed to pretend everything was all right for whole hours at a time, but he wasn't the same man. And he's still not."

The echo from last night doesn't pass unnoticed. "He's getting better," Ianto replies, instinctive in his defensiveness of Jack.

"He was, until you were a damn fool who almost got yourself killed. Have you even bothered to notice what a wreck he is today? He's terrified whenever you're out of sight."

Ianto bites back his initial response, because Gwen doesn't get to hear about their home life, and he's not giving up another small shard of Jack that's his alone. He also quells the embarrassment, because honestly, he believed Gwen hadn't noticed, either.

She says, "It's been my job to hold him together, and I can't, Ianto. There's too much, and I have my own family. I won't survive him breaking apart again." Emotion thickens her speech. Gwen's done her own breaking all this time, but Gwen's made of different stuff than Jack. She bends.

"He won't."

"Don't be stupid, and do not waste my time pretending to be humble." Each word is a slap, pushing him back. "Don't say he's lost lovers before, because we watched over him after Estelle. Don't say he's lost friends before, because he and I have lost friends you never met. You know he bled when Owen and Tosh died, and he went on without them. He lost Gray the same day they died, so don't bloody well pass it off as he was only mourning Steven. It was you. It was always you." There's regret and anger in every word, and a forest of paths untravelled. He and Gwen circle Jack like a double helix. Switch places here, exchange a choice there, and the whole body moves.

"So I had to tell you," she finishes limply, wiping at tears neither one will ever admit she shed. "You may like to pretend you're not important, but I actually think you do want to believe it's true. There's your proof. The next time you run off to do something abysmally stupid, don't imagine for a second I won't wallop you."

He wants to protest, wants to set out before her all the reasons he's neatly arranged as to why he's not as significant to Jack as she says. Yesterday, he would have. Today, he nods his head once, curtly, and says, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She stalks out, leaving him alone and flustered, and completely forgetting why he came in the little archive room at all.

* * *

They take a late lunch in the new conference room, but it's set up for five, not six. Jack doesn't affect to notice, and then he makes a poor joke about Ianto sitting on his lap when he does. Another chair is brought in from outside for the interloper. As at the dinner party, conversations move past him, and Ianto focuses on eating, on fitting in, and he gets used to being ignored.

The rest of the day goes better, for certain definitions. No new murders are reported from London, but Ianto does find months-old records of two murdered humans in Swindon who match the MO. He turns what he can over to Andy, who seems far more intimately acquainted with Torchwood's dealings than he used to be.

On their way home, Ianto relaxes in his seat, grateful for once that Jack insisted on driving again. Over the noise from the radio, Jack asks, "Anyone try to kill you today?"

"Only Gwen." The minor issues were best left unspoken. Albert tripped him once, ostensibly by accident, and when he was taking his obligatory physical, Dr. Pol took her time in finding a vein for the blood test. Lois is biding her time, he's sure, and he made his own coffee in the afternoon, hovering over his cup in case of tampering. Having spent more time with Lois today, he doesn't expect cyanide, but he wouldn't put laxatives past her. (Of the three newcomers, she's the least pissed-off at him, but she also got to stay back and coordinate from here yesterday. He's still not risking it.)

"They're going to hate you for a while, and then they'll get used to having you around." It's practically the same pep talk he gave after Ianto's first day back after Lisa. Which is why Ianto isn't surprised when Jack follows on with the same threat he made back then, too. "If you ever lie to me again on something like this, you're going to lose every memory you've had since 2005."

Ianto replies the same way he did then. "Yes, sir."

* * *

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

He nearly forgets it's Rhiannon's birthday, but is reminded by an e-card from Richard, generic and sterile with singing cats. During his time on the run, Ianto always gave Rhiannon's birth date as his own: it was easy to remember, and made him appear old enough to have a child Steven's age. Guiltily, he phones her now, and is harangued with love about never visiting. "You ought to come over on Sunday. We're doing a cake."

The too-familiar "Work is kind of busy" pops to his lips without effort, earning him a loud sigh from his sister, and a silent raised eyebrow from his boyfriend.

"You got another job, then? You never tell me. You could call more often, you know." She's teasing, and a little hurt. "You didn't come for the kids' birthdays, didn't come for Christmas. We're hardly far away."

Sour bile hits the back of his mouth. "I didn't get back until last month." It's as kind a reminder as he can manage.

"And you didn't have a phone whilst you were off finding yourself again?"

Cold nerves tingle all over him. He had tried calling, had tried standing right in front of her, and the filter had kept him as hidden as an open hole in the pavement. And now … "Rhi, remind me. Where did I say I went when I was gone?"

Her tone goes cold, and a bit nasty. "Why? Trying to keep your stories straight? I'm getting tired of this, Ianto."

"I'm serious. Where do you think I was? I _died_."

She pauses for a long time. "I love you. You know I love you. You've got to stop lying to me."

"I'm working on it," he says in a hoarse whisper. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

After she rings off, he lets Jack wrap him in a hug. "She forgot."

* * *

The call comes at eleven that night. Jack gets to the phone first, and by the fourth word, Ianto knows it's Martha. They know where the killer's headed, and they are tracking him.

"Don't go in," Jack cautions her, throwing on his clothes. Ianto is already halfway dressed. Jack scowls his way as he tells Martha, "He's murdered at least two humans, and God knows how many aliens. We'll be there soon enough."

Even past the speaker, Ianto hears her disbelief. "We'll lose him if we wait."

"Then we lose him. Don't risk it."

She says something else, something Ianto can't hear, and Jack closes the phone, swearing. "You're not coming."

"He knows me. I might be able to reason with him."

"Reason's not on the menu. Also, you can't see him." And it will be hours until they're in London, unless Jack's wrist strap has started to work in Ianto's absence.

"Let me try. If we get on the scene and you think it's too dangerous, I'll stay in the car. I swear."

Jack's face is in agony, but time is slipping away. He doesn't object when Ianto follows his hasty retreat to the car, nor when Ianto grabs the keys. Jack's a madman behind the wheel, but even this tired, Ianto's at least as good, and at this time of night, the roads are clear to scream down at a smooth 100 MPH. Jack readies the weapons and burns his nervous energy rousing the others from their sleep to apprise them. He tells them to stay sharp and that he'll call if he needs backup. He does not, Ianto notices, mention he's not alone.

It's a rush, it's like the old days, the good days. One AM is like a fresh ten in the morning, driven by their need to get to the site before anyone else dies. Jack's vibrating by the time they arrive, all nervous energy and eagerness for the chase. Ianto follows him out, but there's a hand at his chest. Reluctantly, he stays put while Jack finds Martha and Mickey.

Later, he'll be privy to how they tracked Nathan down, a combination of good luck and bloody-mindedness after picking up the unique energy signature of the heat weapon during the debacle at the school auditorium. Later, Mickey will wind out the story for Ianto's benefit, including his detour to fetch electronic aid from Ealing, and Martha's quick thinking to evacuate most of the alien-patronised diner out through the back. The call came as they headed here themselves. Later is time for explanations, now is the time to deal with the problem.

Nathan is still inside, and he has hostages. "Let me talk to him." Three heads turn his way, not one liking the plan.

"He's not talking," Mickey says, before Jack can order Ianto away.

"He might talk to me. We were friends." Sort of.

"So were we," Martha says, "and we nearly killed you. When you're looking at him, your brain kicks onto another track. You won't be able to focus."

"Car. You. Now." Jack's more direct. His hand is in his pocket, almost certainly holding his TARDIS key. If they can reach Nathan, they can bell him like a cat to overwrite the filter blocking him. Before Ianto can object, Jack's other hand grabs his arm, and walks him away from the scene.

"When I got Lois on the phone," Jack says quietly, "she says she found out more about his other victims. One was his cousin, the other was his aunt. He's killed people he knows. Now stay in the damn car."

Ianto rests his arms on the roof, folding them like a schoolboy. He's not inside, but it's close enough to appease Jack. The location also gives him the perfect vantage point to note the shapeless forms milling around just out of the range of lights. Martha and Mickey got most of the customers free, but the alien community has been alerted. They aren't running. They have also phoned their friends.

Jack goes in first. The practicality of Jack's condition has long been a Torchwood tactical mainstay, or so said the records Ianto researched over long nights after Jack left with the Doctor and Martha. She's two steps behind him, drawn in on a case she isn't supposed to be involved with, but fearless. Jack told him, eventually, about the year they spent that never occurred, about the hell she saw that she helped unmake. The world hasn't anything left to make Martha afraid. Her husband is more practical, and has the gear. There's a reason Ianto likes him. Someone has to make sure everyone arrives on time and gets home in one piece.

"Nathan Reynolds," Jack says in a voice that carries. "We know who you are, and we know why you're doing this. Come out and drop your weapon." Jack manages one short glance back to where Ianto waits. "We'll talk."

"No." The voice doesn't sound like the one Ianto remembers, but the face is wrong too. A sharp headache forms at Ianto's temple as he catches a glimpse of a gaunt, grey face, unmemorable in the worst way.

"Look, you really don't want this situation to go down this way. I'm the Director of Torchwood Cardiff. We're all that's left, but we know who you are and we know how to help you." His voice is soothing but firm, the dad come to collect the wayward child.

"No-one can help." Bleak sorrow cuts through the words. "No-one knows me. These _monsters_ eat and breed, they take our spaces like they have some right to be here on our planet. But I can't make my family see my face, can't get a job, nothing. They took everything. How fucking dare they!"

There's the sound of the weapon firing, and an unearthly scream from someone trapped inside. The mobile in Ianto's pocket has the face of a little girl murdered by this man because Nathan's own life was ripped away by Cyberman and Daleks, and was brought back wrong. Alisha died, and someone inside has died, for a cosmic hiccup, an accident of space-time.

"Nathan?"

He's walked away from the car. Jack can kill him later.

"Nathan, do you recognise me?"

The face he doesn't know looks at him. Ianto wants to look away, wants to cure this pounding in his skull, but he forces himself to stay still. "We used to work together. And you died. Do you remember me?"

"Jones?" He squints. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." Ianto waits for the gun to load, to fire. He'll burn alive from the inside out. "I died, too. And I came back, and nobody could see me. I know what's happening to you. I know how you're feeling."

The grey face says, "This is a trick."

"They look through you, past you. If you say your own name, they scream at you and send you away. You can't go home, and all you can think about is the darkness. Because it was so dark. And you've got a call in your head to visit the woman who brought us back, and you're praying she can answer all your questions." She can't. They weren't meant to rise from the dead.

"She wasn't there." He's empty, lost. Nathan went to find Amy Pond and found instead a vacant house. No Mr. Copper Foundation. No second chance, no hope. Just family members who don't recognise him, and aliens living the life he should have, and a call in his head he can't ever respond to.

Of course he's gone mad.

"Stay back," Jack mouths, but Ianto takes another step. He's still behind Jack, behind Martha.

Ianto says, "Nathan, I need you to give us the gun. There's a man who can help you. He's called the Doctor. He helped bring me back. He can help you." Nathan twitches at the mention of Torchwood's Enemy Number One. Another alien, Ianto realises too late.

From inside, there are voices, some keening. He's killed tonight. Surrounding them are packs of aliens ready to move in. This won't end well unless it ends quickly.

"Please," Ianto says. "It's all right. You can come home now."

There's movement and a click as the heavy weapon is set on a hard floor. "Okay." It's the voice of a sleepy child inside a grown man. He takes three shambling steps out of the diner into the dull light of the streetlamps and the background light of the city around them. He watches Ianto's face, lonely and lost.

Three different weapons fire from various positions, and later, Ianto will know it's a fucking miracle he, Martha, and Mickey aren't dead. For now, he watches as two beams blast into the body of the scarecrow in front of him, and another smashes the front window of the diner in a cacophony of splintering glass.

Jack's turning with his hands up, ordering people who have no reason to listen to him to stand down. Martha's at a run to the fallen man, but doesn't even take a pulse before glancing at her husband and heading inside the diner to see who's been injured.

Ianto is frozen to his spot. Everything glitters and skews in the reflections from the shattered window, Jack's yelling at someone, Mickey's muttering under his breath to contain the scene. It's all gone bad, and it's all over but the clean-up and paperwork and accusations. Ianto's vision moves in slow motion to the back of the gathering crowd. There are three Forbani standing with their own weapons, one still raised. At this distance, he can barely tell species, much less individuals, but he feels for a moment that they are watching him, and giving him a professional nod of courtesy. Thanking him for drawing out the prey. Retiring back into the shadows before Jack can reach them for questions he already knows the answers to.

The headache is worse. There's a body on the ground, and Ianto is struggling to remember whose.

The night grows longer. There are so many questions, and jurisdiction is a nightmare. Mopolite arrives on the scene with his entourage and a cloud of anger. Jack would have let Nathan walk out alive, would have cured him and given him sanctuary, and everyone here knows that. Ianto is subject to plenty of annoyed looks, almost as many as Martha and Mickey are gathering whilst the three of them clean up the site together. The couple tend to leave the more peaceful aliens alone, and they even worked with Sharky on occasion, but they have few friends here tonight. Martha does mend some fences when she aids the injured aliens. The two dead are another issue. Ianto silently adds them to his own personal tally. They are in good company.

The body causes some difficulty.

"Human authorities will take custody." Jack goes round and round with Mopolite, and comes against a wall.

"We must show our people the monster is dead. They have been afraid. Now they no longer need to be afraid." And Mopolite will have unrivalled sway among them after carrying the head of their shared enemy. He wanted to kill Nathan himself to solidify his position. Now desecrating the corpse will have to suffice.

The argument is one Jack ultimately loses, perhaps on purpose. He's not making friends, either, and as Ianto tries to keep his own head down, he can hear muttering and quiet threats. It's an uneasy night, not made any better as two of Mopolite's thugs drag Nathan's body away from where Ianto has cleaned it and set the arms folded to rest.

Jack extracts from Mopolite a promise that the body will be burned in the same fashion as the locals do: no tears, no evidence.

Mopolite agrees to those terms, but parts with a threat. He speaks loud enough to ensure all the onlookers take note. "Torchwood is no longer relevant to our needs. We can mind our people without your input, Captain. Mind your own, or next time, we will be the ones taking an interest in your life."

* * *

Sofa beds are by definition lumpy, thin mattresses with bad springs. The best have a faint scent of mould, the worst of urine. Martha's sofa bed is neither comfortable nor fresh, but it's soft enough for sleep when the four of them crawl back to the flat in the earliest purple-pink morning hours, too exhausted to drive home. A two-hour nap makes better sense than Gwen's yawned offer to come fetch them. Even Jack's passed out beside him, vests and pants serving as flimsy chaperones between them. Ianto hears Martha and Mickey talking in low voices from the direction of their bedroom, hears someone running water, and hears nothing else.

His dreams tend towards the murkier in unfamiliar beds. He can't make out the revolting images he's running from, can barely fight the terror knowing if they catch him, he'll die burning up from inside. That heat settles back into consciousness: a spare duvet, stiflingly hot with Jack's personal furnace wrapped around Ianto's body. Kicking the covers free lets in welcome cool air, and Ianto sinks back under.

It's daylight out, and he can't see a clock. He listens to the sounds of the flat, the other tenants in the building, the hum of appliances. His ears pick up a rhythmic sound that he doesn't identify at first, and then he does. Jack's awake beside him now, with a grin belying the stress of the last few days: he's always pleased when people around him are having sex, even when he isn't invited to join in. Upon noticing Ianto is also awake, he dives in for a kiss, but Ianto's hands are faster and push his fingers away before it turns into more. There are rules about shagging on your mate's sofa.

The noises from the other room grow louder, then hush as though one has whispered a reminder to the other that they have guests. The merriment in Jack's eyes doesn't dim as he cocks his head to listen better. (For Mickey's peace of mind, Ianto rather hopes he doesn't catch on that Jack's presence is probably inspiring this morning's marital bliss, courtesy of 51st century body chemistry and its effects on 21st century humans.)

It's odd out here in the sitting room, listening to two people Jack hasn't slept with enjoy one another. Ianto hadn't known if he ought to be jealous of Martha when they first met, with Jack's casual "She's a friend" tossed off without explanation. But Jack's deepest friendships seem to revolve around women, whilst his heart orbits men more frequently, or so Ianto has observed time and again. Martha occupies a place in his affection very  
close to family. Ianto places his right hand over the strong beat of Jack's heart now, heat radiating through thin white cotton, radiating too through the stretchy fabric of his y-fronts.

"Bet we could do it without making any noise," Jack breathes with shivers into his ear.

"You don't make a mess on your friend's sofa bed."

The tickle of Jack's lips against his cheek wilt his resolve, though, and his intentions crumble completely when Jack licks his earlobe. "It won't make a mess if I catch you in my mouth."

Ianto can see the future clearly, see the four of them at breakfast. He'll still have the thick, rich taste of Jack's come on his tongue as he sips his first coffee. Jack and Martha will share the questioning glance of old friends who want to confirm the other got properly laid. And they'll all know without saying a word about the matter, as they chat over burnt toast and juice.

Sex is a terrible coping mechanism for dealing with guilt over a mission gone wrong, but as he pushes Jack's shoulders against the lumpy mattress, Ianto can't think of a better one.

* * *

Jack's mobile rings on their way out of London. Jack is driving, and hands the phone to Ianto to answer. The number on the display is Alice's. "Hello, this is Jack's phone."

"Where are you?" The shrill demand hurts his ear, and Ianto pulls the speaker away from him instinctively.

"On the M4. We just passed the A404. Why?"

"Steven's gone." The low terror in Alice's voice sends ice splintering through his veins. "He went to school this morning, but they called to ask why he didn't attend. Tell me he's with you." Later, he will find out she's looked everywhere between their home and the school, that she's already called Joe.

"He's not."

Jack shoots him a look, not knowing what the conversation is yet. Ianto wants to protect him for just a minute longer, because everything is about to go very bad for everyone. He can hear the cracks in the last of Alice's self-control as she asks, "Did he call?"

"I left my phone," he says, tasting ashes. On their way out the door last night, he simply forgot in the rush. Now his own mobile is sitting in Cardiff, and if Steven called him for help, he doesn't know.

"What's going on?" Jack hates to be out of the loop in any situation, no matter how minor. His fingers play on the wheel.

"We'll be there soon," Ianto says, and he rings off. "Pull over and let me drive." His voice is as calm as he can manage with terror nibbling at him.

This is retribution, his mind gibbers quietly. Ianto fucked up the case, allowed Nathan to go free, and he burned out more lives before he was put down. The universe demands payback, taking perverse pleasure in balancing its debts on the same little boy over and over for the sins of people who love him.

Now Jack's frown is thunderstorming over his face. "Tell me."

"Steven's gone missing."

Ianto really wishes Jack had pulled over, more so when the car lurches forward and accelerates. Now isn't the time to berate Jack's broken safety record on his driving, not when the scenery is suddenly whizzing by as Jack scouts out the best route to Alice's house. Ianto calls Gwen, begging her to go by theirs to check if Steven's shown up on their step, and to stay in case he does. She has the spare key, and she wishes them luck, her own soft terror poking through. Jack's told him a little of what happened while Ianto was away, enough for him to guess what nightmare she's remembering.

Jack's thinking the same way. "Someone could have grabbed him. I have a lot of enemies." And we made more last night, he does not say. He also doesn't bring up the last time Steven was abducted from his home for the sake of keeping Jack in line. His face does that for him.

"We'll find him."

Jack glares at Ianto, risking the lives of dozens around their car. Ianto won't shrink back, because he thinks Jack is wrong. Steven hasn't been kidnapped by someone. He's run away from home.

It's sooner than Ianto thought possible when they are driving down the street, Jack slowing to crane his neck out the window in a vain hope of seeing Steven.

The police have already arrived, and they are asking questions. Jack dusts off his old flimsy excuse of being Alice's brother. He introduces Ianto as his "better half," holding his hand for emphasis. Alice hasn't yet volunteered Ianto's real concern for Steven, leaving him to fade into the background as the new round of questioning begins.

Joe arrives five minutes later, just in time to see a heated argument between Alice and Jack catch fire. Ianto barely listens, aware this is just the latest iteration of long-standing resentments. He asks and is granted permission to go up to Steven's bedroom, searching for a sign or a note. Runaways take their most treasured possessions with them into hiding, but Steven is used to dropping everything except the clothes on his back and whatever cash he has on hand. That's all Ianto's fault.

A small bank shaped like a multicoloured robot sits tipped on the shelf. The black rubber stopper that holds the bottom closed is out and the bank is empty. Ianto is guiltily pleased to be proven right, but even if Steven left by his own choice, he is still vulnerable wherever he's gone.

"I'm going to trace the walk we made to the train station," he says, coming back down the stairs.

Alice lays off haranguing her father. "You think he went there?"

"Did you check?"

"I drove by."

She looks at the constable handling most of the questions, who nods and says, "We've contacted the station. If he's been taken there, we'll know."

Joe says, "I don't think you should leave the scene." Ianto has never met him before today. He can see the resemblance between this man and his son, but more, he can see the faded charm and handsome face that isn't so dissimilar to Jack's. Alice must have been struck right in the subconscious when she met him. But the mirror is all astray, and the image fades when Joe asks, "Where were you last night and this morning?"

Jack says, "Like I said, we were in London. _For work_." That last bit is to Alice, who grumbles her way through explaining her brother is a dealer in antiques and oddities.

Joe doesn't look convinced. The head constable looks like she wants to ask more questions. Everything's a mess, and Steven isn't here. They're all stuck in a molasses mire of fear and recrimination, and _Steven isn't here_.

A sick taste grows in his mouth. He sees a matching emptiness on Alice's face, sees also her understanding. Even as Joe starts with, "He's the one who – " Alice cuts him off crisply.

"He's nobody. Just a friend." And she mouths, "Go look."

* * *

He remembers this walk only vaguely. Steven led their footsteps when they came before, but there are signs. One catches his eye, and on a whim, Ianto turns. There's a chance Steven is at the train station, and a chance he's already boarded a train for God alone knows where, maybe Cardiff, maybe London, maybe Leadworth. But the library is closer.

A worried smile and polite demeanour serve Ianto better than any kind of bluster ever could. He's shown the direction of the children's area. As he walks through the cool stacks, he pauses and removes a book whose title he knows well.

Steven sits with his back against the wall under a high window. His bag is beside him, and there's an open school book in his lap serving as camouflage. His eyes are closed, and his shoulders are trembling.

Ianto sits on the floor next to him, leaning against the chilly white wall. He places the book he found on the floor between their stretched-out legs. "I've heard this one is good."

Steven opens his eyes, staring sadly at Ianto, then looks at the copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. "It's okay."

"You've read it, then? Only I was thinking we could read it together, if you wanted."

Steven shakes his head. He's not crying now, but he's been, and he's going to start again any moment. Ianto reckons Alice can't be any angrier with him than she already is, and he wraps one arm around the child. Unexpectedly, Steven crawls into the embrace, leaving Ianto to bring his other arm awkwardly into the hug.

There aren't many other patrons in the library at this hour. The few nearby send them curious looks. "By the way," Ianto says into Steven's hair, "you ought to call me Dad whilst we're here, or I'm probably leaving in a police car."

Steven giggles, and he pulls away, tears and worse all over his face even as he laughs. Ianto digs for a handkerchief. "Thanks."

"This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you your mother is out of her mind with worry, and so's everyone else." At Steven's guilty expression, Ianto adds, "But I think you already know that, so let's assume I did and get on."

Steven lets out a sigh, and he rests his back against the wall again. "She doesn't remember I was gone sometimes. The kids at school don't remember I died. They think I went to live with my dad."

Ianto closes his eyes. "You remember."

"It was so cold." His voice is like steam, frighteningly thin, and Ianto turns to watch him in creeping horror. "It was dark, and cold, and there was nothing."

'Nothing' is such a delicate word, comfortable and meaningless. Ianto has made himself blur what 'nothing' really is, a frozen infinity where even memory was no solace, where darkness was an absolute more empty than the space between galaxies, and it went on forever in loneliness and unspeakable, impossible want for anything. 'Nothing' was consciousness stretched out into filament-thin madness, and terror of the Thing That Moved In the Darkness, just out of not-sight. He has not wanted to remember this, not at all.

They have never spoken of the place after death. Perhaps they should have.

"Did it hurt, for you?"

Steven nods, the tears starting again. "Like running so hard until you're sick, and all you can feel is the sick, and you want someone to hold you and make it better, and no-one's there, forever and ever."

"Yeah."

"That's what it feels like here, too." Steven digs into his bag, and he pulls out a bottle. Ianto doesn't recognise the label, but he takes it from Steven's slack grip. Sleeping pills, Alice's. Prescribed a year ago. Ianto's hand closes numbly around the bottle.

"Tell me you haven't opened this."

Steven shakes his head. "I keep thinking about it. I don't fit any more."

"Like we're back to our lives, but they grew without us," Ianto says, watching Steven's face crumple with the blow of the words. It's the same thing the others have been going through. Amy restored them, the Doctor made them visible, but without Amy Pond dreaming them into reality by her presence, Time herself is pressing back, refusing the shapes of these mistaken imprints upon her golden surface. The breaking point is inside their heads.

Steven says, "I don't belong here." He reaches out for the bottle, and Ianto pulls his arm away, stowing the pills safely in his pocket and ignoring the attraction growing in his mind for their simple surcease. So easy, he knows, so perfect. There are more than enough tablets. Go to sleep right here, hands enfolded and their two heads resting together against this wall. No more questions, no more guilt, no more trying to fit back into lives that don't have room, just the emptiness, and the nothing.

But 'nothing' is so cold.

"I don't belong in my life, either." Not in the black and chrome flat that isn't his, not in the job that belongs to someone else, and the friends who moved on. Only Jack seems to have made a shape for Ianto that fits, but Jack has been falling apart for as long as Ianto has been dead. The pair of them are accustomed to being broken together.

How badly will he crack if he's the one to find their cooling bodies, hearts stopped and skin gone bluish in death?

"Can we go somewhere?" Steven's voice is barely above a whisper, but he edges at hope. How many times did they flee together into yet another new life? At the time, Ianto considered each abandoned identity another mark of failure, but there's a tang of excitement in the prospect of just kicking the dirt from their shoes and walking away hand in hand. Time doesn't want them here, but there are other cities, other countries. Nathan went mad under the weight of his knowledge, of death and loss and never going home. Perhaps they should surrender the hope of home, assured that memory will go on with the process of writing their transition smoothly away from their loved ones.

"Give it a month," Ianto says, with the same false confidence he digs up every time Steven asks him questions he cannot answer. "One month from today, if things aren't better, you and I will leave. Anywhere you want to go. All right?"

"I can't."

"You can. Thirty-one days. And no more of this, you calling me when you're sad." Steven's look of despair is quickly appeased as Ianto says, "Because I will be calling you every day. No matter what your mum says. Because I'm sad, too. All the time." He doesn't like saying the words. He doesn't like the truth he hears in them.

"Mum said you'd forget about me. Because you were off with Uncle Jack now."

"Do you think there's a day goes by when Jack doesn't think about you?" Perhaps there used to be, back when Steven was alive and safe and out of sight and mind, Ianto admits, but such a time won't come again until Jack has forgotten the twenty-first century entirely, millions of years from now. "And I won't ever forget you, not even once. I promise."

"You didn't answer when I called."

"Well, that's a different problem. I can't promise not to forget my phone." He tries a smile, and gets one in return. "Jack and I were out catching aliens in London last night and this morning." Close to the truth, anyway. "You can call his mobile if you can't get me. He'll always know where I am."

"Mum says I'm not allowed to call Uncle Jack ever."

And what to say to that? Jack killed Steven. Alice isn't ever going to forgive him. Jack isn't ever going to forgive himself, either. "Maybe we can ask her to make an exception. Now and then."

"I don't want to go back." The despair has returned. "I wanted to go home, and I'm home, and it hurts."

"I know."

"I think about being dead all the time."

Ianto has pushed the thought all the way to the back of his mind, but it pops up again like a balloon boxer, weighted with sand and ready to punch back. "I know."

"Nobody understands."

"I do. And Jack does, too. He's been dead before. Loads of times."

Steven frowns in disbelief. No-one has ever told him properly about his grandfather. "But he's okay. Nobody forgot him."

"He's not okay. I think if you talk to him, if your mum says you can, you'll find he understands all about being brought back to life by accident courtesy of a pretty young woman."

It's not much, it's even less than the promise of calls, the promise of running away in a month's time, but Steven looks thoughtful now instead of sorrowful. His face is changing, losing more of the baby softness since Ianto last saw him. In another month, he will look that much closer to the man he'll someday be. Growing up is its own horror, but with enough help, Steven may yet live long enough to discover that himself.

"Are you up to walking home?"

Steven takes a long breath that shudders through him, and gets up, offering a hand to help Ianto, who's gone stiff in the uncomfortable seat on the carpet.

They stop on the way out to check out their book.

* * *

After the police leave and everything is back to an unsettled normal, Steven goes upstairs to rest in his room, and Ianto sits Alice down on her sofa with a mug of tea adulterated with brandy. It's long past time for them to talk. She's as damaged as her son, grateful to have him home, terrified of every word Ianto says. Joe's still here, and Jack wouldn't leave even if he was asked. Ianto tells them all together that Steven needs a new therapist, and he needs one today. He gives Alice the pill bottle back, and no, she hadn't yet gone through her cupboards to see it was missing. He's glad she has loved ones here around her, has Steven safely home, rather than finding out alone. The mask of her face now says enough.

"He's thinking about death every day. He doesn't feel as if he belongs back in his life, and there's a voice in the back of his head telling him how to remedy that." This part is hardest, and he takes the coward's way this time, choosing to look at Alice instead of Jack. "I understand, because I've got the same thoughts. It's happening to all of us who came back. There've been at least two suicides just among the people we knew, and last night I watched someone commit suicide by alien because he didn't fit in his own life."

"What's that, now?" Joe is a stranger to this life, the innocent in the room. Ianto has never asked what he was told about his son's death.

"This is news," Jack says, unhappy and accusing. "You should have said something."

"I'm not as bad off as the rest. I have you." He tries to pass the words off casually. This isn't about him. "The Doctor didn't bring us back, Amy did, but she never intended to. She remembered a world without alien threats, and we were a side effect. I think that without her, the timeline is trying to accommodate two separate realities, maybe more. Something has to give, and it's giving inside us. Self-correcting. We don't belong here. There isn't room."

"Of course there's room," says Alice. "This is Steven's home. He's in his own bedroom. He goes to his old school."

"But there isn't room inside people's heads for him. You're forgetting that he died. He can't."

"He could," Jack says, and it's the cold, calculating Jack whom Ianto remembers from long ago, and hated then.

"No." As tempting as the Retcon is, Steven is a walking anachronism. Even if he doesn't remember, reality won't be so kind, and he will burn himself up inside. They both will.

"I don't want to remember that he died," Alice says, her face contorted in a way Ianto can only imagine she's done at least once before.

"What are you talking about?" Joe sounds frightened now. He's looking between them. "Why do you keep saying he died? Steven's upstairs. He's fine."

Alice turns to her ex. Multiple emotions play over her face, and she looks back at Ianto, who shrugs. "You know what," she says, "you're right. He's fine. We had a bit of a scare, that's all. Tell Petra I said hello."

"That's it, then. The boy runs off, and the fellow who abducted him brings him back and now everything's fine?"

"Yes," Alice says, and it's the same flat tone her father uses when he's planning on shooting the next person to disagree. Apparently Joe knows that tone as well, because he storms off without another word to her, though he does go upstairs for a few minutes to say good-bye to Steven.

"Joe's rewritten everything," Jack says, when he's gone.

Alice replies, "I want to forget. I want Steven to forget."

Ianto folds his hands together. "If you don't remember, you can't make a space for who he is now. He needs you to remember. He needs to talk to people who remember. Alice, his own brain is telling him he doesn't exist, that he's an anomaly that should be corrected. Steven needs contact with me, because I won't forget, and he needs contact with Jack, because Jack can believe in him as strongly as Amy did." He looks at Jack. "I think you're the only person who can, who wasn't one of us." Jack's used to dealing with multiple timelines and realities; Ianto and Steven are just another paradox. There's never a question with him of what's real because it's all real.

Jack nods, accepting this. He sits down next to his daughter, though he doesn't dare take her hand. "Steven needs you to hold onto what happened even when you want to let your memories revise the story. I'll do whatever I can to help." He says something else, something not in English. Ianto's heard the alien sounds before, and by the mixed expressions on her face, so has Alice.

"Don't say that to me," she says, tired and sick from old wounds. "Not now. I still hate you. Of course I love you, but I really do still hate you."

"I'm going to call every day," Ianto says. "I promised Steven I would. But it won't be enough without you. Everyone else he sees every day won't remember. Someone needs to protect him, and have his back."

And that's the key, at last. Alice's chin goes up, set. This entire shitty situation has taken away too many of her choices, but she knows about protecting her son, and if memory is what will keep Steven safe, she'll make herself remember every detail for the rest of her life.

* * *

They need to get back to Cardiff, but Steven begs them to stay for a late lunch, and after that the goodbye hug he gives Ianto is trembling. Ianto asks for a minute alone, and they go back up to Steven's room.

"Don't go."

"All right. I'll leave Cardiff and move here. I'll live two streets away and come visit every day."

"You will?"

Ianto nods. "If you ask me to." He didn't intend to make the offer, yet now that he has, his mind races. Maybe this is what he needs: a new home away from his past, a new job not involving aliens, one person he loves close by. And if the mere thought of leaving Jack behind again breaks his heart, well, he's survived that pain before. "It's up to you."

Steven sits on the edge of his bed. His room is filled with toys, many of them too young for him. He's not the same child who used to live here, who used to play with the little die-cast cars and LEGOs.

"I don't know if I can be brave for a month."

"You don't have to be. Can you be brave for one day? I'll call tomorrow."

"Then what?"

"Then we'll both see if we can be brave for another day. All right?"

He looks around his room, looks at his toys, finally raises his eyes to Ianto, and he nods. "All right."

* * *

Ianto takes the wheel for the drive home, letting Jack sort things with Gwen and the others over the phone. The day is half gone and they still have paperwork to file when they get back, closing the case of the alien murders. The murderer is dead, but they didn't really save him. Steven's alive, but he's going to need much more intensive help to climb back to functional. When Ianto gets home, he needs to check his voicemail and he needs to move the picture of a dead little alien girl to a more permanent storage platform, perhaps even print it out side-by-side with a snap of Steven: remember the people he's trying to save, don't forget the ones he's failed.

It's not been a good day, not been a good series of days, and he can tell Jack thinks the same by the collapse of his shoulders against the seat when he finally ends the last call.

"Straight to the new Hub, then?" Ianto asks, switching lanes.

"Flat first. We'll drop you off, and I'll go in." Jack's eyes are closed.

"I need to file the report on Nathan."

"That case is closed. You don't have to worry about it. I'll handle the paperwork." His tone is clipped, angry.

Ianto rewinds their conversation prior to the detour to Steven's house and the library. "I am sorry for ruining the case. I am sorry for getting in the middle after you told me not to, and I am really, really sorry for everyone who got hurt because of that mistake. If you don't want me around the office because of that, I understand, but I think we both know I'll be of more use to you there than sitting around the flat."

Jack's face is solid. Maybe he's not angry. Maybe he's still freaking out over nearly losing Steven once again, and the knowledge that they aren't out of the woods yet.

"And speaking of the flat," he says, reckoning he's already in for it anyway, "I want to start looking for a new one."

"I'll send you to the estate agent Alice used." Now the tone is much clearer, and with it, his attitude. Bitterness is rolling off Jack in waves.

Bewildered, Ianto asks, "Why?"

"They're active in that area. They've got some great bargains." Every word drips with contempt.

"If you don't want to talk about it now, just say so."

"When are you going?" The anger has punctured into sorrow. Jack sounds lost.

"Going where?" Realisation strikes him. "You were eavesdropping."

"Not on purpose." This is a blatant lie, so much so that Ianto can ignore it. "I heard you tell Steven you're going to leave Cardiff and move close by, and I was done listening."

"Then you missed the part where I promised him a month from now, if he'd still rather kill himself than stay, that we'd pack our things and go somewhere new."

"You did what?"

Ianto finds a place to pull over, and puts on the hazard lights. He turns to Jack.

"He's dying. If the only way to keep him safe is to pack him up and take him to Mars, I'll find us a rocket and go. If it means I leave everything behind to move next door to him, I'll do that too. You said never to lie to you again, and this is the truth."

"You'd leave, just like that?"

A peculiar suspicion dawns on Ianto. He tests the threads of his new concept. "I would." He doesn't say, _"And I'll lose the last of my dignity begging you to come with us when I know you can't, and it will hurt like hell when you say no,"_ because he is too busy watching Jack's attempts to control the expressions on his own face. Jack is aiming for a schooled nonchalance, but he's been through too much, and the cracks in his demeanour are as wide as a crack on the wall, as a crack in the universe.

Realising this, he papers over the damage with bluster. "Give me the keys. I'm driving." Ianto grabs the keys a fraction of a second faster, and fights Jack's grip over his hand for them. Realising quickly that he can't win a battle of strengths, he plays dirty pool and shoves a finger under Jack's arm to tickle him, which only encourages Jack to drop his bid for the keys and get handsy himself. A short and vicious tickling bout commences, impeded by their seat belts and resulting in both gasping for air within a minute. Jack goes in for the kill and takes away the rest of Ianto's breath with a deep kiss. Ianto keeps his grip on the keys.

The drivers in the cars whizzing by must think them completely mad.

Ianto wins the keyring, and he sits back in his seat, wheezing. "Now will you tell me what's wrong?"

"You're leaving." Jack's out of breath, but he looks better for having had the contact. Plants need sunlight, animals need food, Captain Jack Harkness needs to touch other people. He's mental, Ianto thinks, but they're both mental. Complementary functional insanity.

"I'm not leaving today. I hope I'm not leaving at all. I want Steven to stay with his mother and grow up safe. Knowing he's got options might help him cope."

"Then why look for a flat now?" He's confused and sad, and empty like an old vase.

"I hate the flat, and you said you only chose it because it was the first one you found. I think we could find a better one closer to work. Unless you really want to stay there." The last sentence screws its way into half a question. He thought Jack didn't care. Perhaps he's been wrong.

At the word 'we,' Jack's lips twitch. "The lease is up in February. Can you live with it 'til then?"

Ianto nods, returning the faint smile as he starts the car and pulls them back into traffic.

They're silent for a while, watching the other cars and the road, each lost in his own thoughts. Ianto spends his on wondering what he could have done differently last night, or the night before, to have changed how the situation ended, and rewinding his conversation with Steven in case he said something terrible, wishing he'd found better words. It's a nasty circle of shark-thoughts swimming in his head. The next time he's alone, they're going to bite at his heels trying to tug him under.

Jack breaks into his reverie. "Back there, you said you have me."

Ianto doesn't recall, and then he does. "Back there, you said I was your better half. Does that mean you're no longer going to be an arse about the word 'couple'?"

"I can't promise that."

Ianto rolls his eyes, and Jack's smile grows into something more human. "You do, you know," Jack says. _Have me,_ he means, and Ianto tilts his head. There are words Jack doesn't say, either, at least not in the vulgar language he's learned here on Earth. He's as much an alien as any Ianto's met, and if Ianto is tied here because of him, Jack has said he only came back because he couldn't outrun Ianto's ghost on any planet in the sky.

"I know."

* * *

tbc


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

* * *

This hasn't been the worst week of his life. Even living through the carnage of Canary Wharf ranks below watching helplessly as his colleagues shot the woman he loved, and those bad memories are matched with the week he lost two of his best friends in a day, and the week he died. Comparatively speaking, this week has been like a holiday somewhere sunny. Still, he's glad it's over.

Also, he's glad they really are on holiday.

Jack makes a noise from the bed. He sleeps more these days than he used to. Ianto should be asleep right now, content beside him, but instead he's wrapped up in a quilt, sitting in the room's lone stuffed armchair and looking out into the still night over the sea. For the first place they came to, this tiny hotel has a spectacular view. He suspects Jack booked a reservation and then played at finding this spot at random. It doesn't matter. He'd have done the same.

A half moon hovers overhead, sending dim highlights to pulse over the steady rocking of the waves: white lace cast on black water. He's not much of a poet, but half-lit nights are made for poetry. Someone better with words ought to capture the contrast of moonlight and waves, and the sleepy god in his bed, because Ianto's words are trapped with the swell in his throat before a single syllable springs forth. It's a beautiful place to be, it's a perfect night to die. He closes his eyes against the waves, but can hear them even through the window glass.

Everything is hard.

Jack let him come back to work, but there isn't room for him on the team. Lois has taken all his old duties, Albert all his new ones. He can make space for himself, did when he first carved out his own fifth position on a team of four, and he can adjust to accusing stares all over again. But every day is difficult, and he struggles to remind himself why he wants this life back. Even Gwen is forgetting he was gone; just yesterday, she casually mentioned events from "when you were off on your trip" and it took him a moment's calculation to realise she was referring to when he was dead. He couldn't form a reply, and Jack merely watched her, not correcting her.

Later, he told Ianto in a regretful voice, "She doesn't mean to. Time is rewriting for her."

"And for you?" He covered his fear with a world-weary tone he'd perfected back when he was seventeen, but Jack drew him into a very non-professional hug with his lips against Ianto's cheek.

"Not for me. Never for me."

Memory, and faith, and the warm light emitting from Jack's private sun, these are keeping Ianto alive and sane. Amy cannot dream anyone alive again. That's what he told Sally over the phone, what he made certain she understood and could tell the others: group together, be warm together, dream one another into being. Nareen's family believes in her. Hal and Karl believe in each other. Sally has enough faith in herself to power a small city, but she promised to pass along the message.

Were he able to muster the necessary poetry for the evening, Ianto would surmise this short holiday - two days which are the most they will squeeze out from their normal lives - is about faith, and Jack's need to prove he can be the sun as well as the moon and stars.

The sun, moon, and stars take this opportunity to let out a snore that's part hippopotamus, and then he's still again.

Ianto's mobile vibrates, whirring in the otherwise quiet room. He carries the phone outside to the small balcony, naked but for his tightly-wrapped quilt. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Another nightmare?"

"Yeah."

They talked earlier this afternoon, going over the details of Steven's day. He played with some new friends, children he didn't know before. Ianto hoped things were looking up, but a call this late indicates otherwise.

"Tell me about it."

"You were screaming at me that you never wanted to see me again."

The cool night air shivers down beneath the frayed patchwork. He's always assumed Steven's nightmares have been of death and of whatever terrors brought him to Amy's doorstep.

"Well, you're awake now. Do you know that's not true?"

There's a pause. "Yeah. It just scared me."

"I know. I get scared about not seeing you again, too."

"You do?"

"All the time." Ianto looks at the half-moon, and he thinks when this moon comes again, the month will have passed, and they will be surviving in the lives they have, or they will be casting out on an unknown sea together.

Steven says, "I think I'm going to be okay now," and he doesn't mean just from the bad dream. "Will you call tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Okay. Good night."

"Good night."

He goes back in, and drops the quilt onto the chair. He's cold, but the bed is toasty warm. Even mostly asleep, Jack wraps him in his arms as soon as they are under the covers together.

"Steven?" he asks with half a yawn.

"Yeah."

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah."

Jack doesn't ask Ianto if he's okay. He pivots and wriggles until they are nose-to-nose and toes-to-toes, and everything in between. The kisses start out slow, but Jack's waking up, and as the sleepiness falls away, his attention turns solely to Ianto.

Even broken, always broken, Jack's so real he bends reality around him, forces illusions to be real. When Ianto and Steven were hiding in plain sight, he was the first to believe, and the first to break the spell even without the help of the TARDIS key. As long as Ianto is with him, no matter how thin he's stretched, no matter how much the voice of the Vortex in his head tells him he doesn't belong, the light shining inside Jack burns away all doubts.

Jack speaks to him tonight in his cradle tongue, adoring whispers between each kiss. There's no room here for the ghosts of the dead between them, no pause for sorrow, or the past. Just hands, with fingers pressed together like they are holding up the world against each other. Just mouths, familiar with the bite and press and suck and tender motions. Just the waves outside and the warmth of the sun in here. Just two hearts beating, learning to live again, one shared breath at a time.

* * *

The End

* * *

A/N: The fic following up on this is Home, Take One. Eldabe wrote another fic in this storyverse called "Suspend." Look for it on Archive of Our Own, or at Eldarwannabe on Livejournal.

My three favourite words are, "I liked this."


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